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Digitized by the Internet Archive 
in 2008 with funding from 
Microsoft Corporation 


http://www.archive.org/details/diaryofsuperfluo00turg 


THE DIARY OF A 
SUPERFLUOUS MAN 
AND OTHER STORIES 





Te ae 
avy twa: iN) Wii Mi at hy Wr i 
ivi me iits Wena Vir jad 


dijo poi ee a 
Cuan fan edee 


‘eat P nye HEA 





THE WORKS 


OF 


IVAN TURGENIEFF 


THE DIARY 
OF A SUPERFLUOUS MAN 
AND OTHER STORIES 


FATHERS AND CHILDREN 


TRANSLATED FROM THE RUSSIAN BY 


ISABEL F. HAPGOOD 


PRINTED BY ARRANGEMENT WITH 
CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS 


WILLEY BOOK COMPANY 
NEW YORK 


Copyricut, 1904, BY 
CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS 





Printed in the United States of America 





CONTENTS 


THE DIARY OF A SUPERFLUOUS MAN 
THREE PORTRAITS 

THREEMMEETINGS . 0... - 
SOLO . |. i rr rn i 


EDEN Miedo 8 6 le, ee ee 


° 1 





4 





2? 
ween 


nv si 14 eR an oT 
WA iy fh we 


a 


a ee r 


iyi a at 


{ i 


, A 





i 


THE DIARY 
OF A SUPERFLUOUS MAN 


(1850) 





THE DIARY 
OF A SUPERFLUOUS MAN 


HAMLET oF OveETCcHI-V Opy,! 
March 20, 18 

HE doctor has -just left me. At last I 
have obtained a categorical answer! Dodge 

as he might, he could not help saying what he 
thought, at last. Yes, I shall die soon, very soon. 
The streams are opening, and [ shall float away, 
probably with the last snows... . whither? 
God knows! To the sea also. Well, all right! 
If I must die, then ’t is better to die in the spring. 
But is it not ridiculous to begin one’s diary per- 
haps a fortnight before one’s death? Where ’s 
the harm? And in what way are fourteen days 
less than fourteen years, fourteen centuries? In 
the presence of eternity, they say, everything is 
of no account—yes; but, in that case, eternity 
also is of no account. I am falling into specu- 
lation, I think: that is a bad sign—am not I be- 
ginning to turn coward?—It will be better if I 
narrate something. It is raw and windy out of 
doors,—I am forbidden to go out. But what 
shall I narrate? A well-bred man does not talk 

1 Sheep’s-Waters or Springs. —TransLaTor. 


3 


THE DIARY OF 


about his maladies; composing a novel, or some- 
thing of that sort, is not in my line; reflections 
about exalted themes are beyond my powers; 
descriptions of life round about me do not even 
interest me; and to do nothing is tiresome; to 
read—is idleness. Eh! I will narrate to myself 
the story of my own life. A capital idea! When 
death is approaching it is proper, and can of- 
fend no one. I begin. 

I was born thirty years ago, the son of a 
fairly wealthy landed proprietor. My father 
was a passionate gambler; my mother was a lady 
with character . .. . a very virtuous lady. 
Only, I have never known a woman whose virtue 
afforded less satisfaction. She succumbed under 
the burden of her merits, and tortured everybody, 
beginning with herself. During the whole fifty 
years of her life, she never once rested, never 
folded her hands; she was eternally bustling and 
fussing about, like an ant—and without any re- 
sult whatever, which cannot be said of the ant. 
An implacable worm gnawed her day and night. 
Only once did I behold her perfectly quiet,— 
namely, on the first day after her death, in her 
coffin. As I gazed at her, it really seemed to me 
that her face expressed mild surprise; the half- 
open lips, the sunken cheeks, and the gently-mo- 
tionless eyes seemed to breathe forth the words: 
“How good it is not to stir!” Yes, ’t is good, 
’t is good to part at last from the fatiguing con- 

+ 


A SUPERFLUOUS MAN 


sciousness of life, from the importunate and un- 
easy sense of existence! But that is not the 
point. 

I grew up badly, and not cheerfully. Both 
my father and my mother loved me; but that did 
not make things any the easier for me. My 
father had no power whatever in his own house, 
and no importance, in his quality of a man 
given over to a shameful and ruinous vice. He 
admitted his fall, and, without having the 
strength to renounce his favourite passion, he 
endeavoured, at least, by his constantly affec- 
tionate and discreet mien, by his submissive hu- 
mility, to win the indulgence of his exemplary 
wife. My mamma, in fact, bore her misfortune 
with that magnificent and ostentatious long-suf- 
fering of virtue which contains so much of self- 
satisfied pride. She never reproached my fa- 
ther for anything, she silently surrendered to 
him her last penny, and paid his debts; he lauded 
her to her face and behind her back, but was not 
fond of staying at home, and petted me on the 
sly, as though he were himself afraid of con- 
taminating me by his presence. But his ruffled 
features exhaled such kindness at those times, 
the feverish smirk on his lips was replaced by 
such a touching smile, his brown eyes, surrounded 
by fine wrinkles, beamed with so much love, that I 
involuntarily pressed my cheek to his cheek, moist 
and warm with tears. I wiped away those tears 

5 


THE DIARY OF 


with my handkerchief, and they flowed again, 
without effort, like the water in an overfilled 
glass. I set to crying myself, and he soothed me, 
patted my back with his hand, kissed me all over 
my face with his quivering lips. Even now, 
more than twenty years after his death, when I 
recall my poor father, dumb sobs rise in my 
throat, and my heart beats—beats as hotly and 
bitterly, it languishes with as much sorrowful 
compassion, as though it still had a long time to 
beat and as though there were anything to feel 
compassion about! 

My mother, on the contrary, always treated 
me in one way, affectionately, but coldly. Such 
mothers, moral and just, are frequently to be met 
with in children’s books. She loved me, but I 
did not love her. Yes! I shunned my virtuous 
mother, and passionately loved my vicious father. 

But enough for to-day. I have made a begin- 
ning, and there is no cause for me to feel anxious 
about the end, whatever it may be. My malady 
will attend to that. 


March 21. 


THE weather is wonderful to-day. It is warm 
and bright; the sun is playing gaily on the slushy 
snow; everything is glittering, smoking, drip- 
ping; the sparrows are screaming like mad crea- 
tures around the dark, sweating hedges; the 
damp air irritates my chest sweetly but fright- 


6 


A SUPERFLUOUS MAN 


fully. The spring, the spring is coming! I am 
sitting by the window, and looking out across 
the little river to the fields. O Nature! Nature! 
I love thee so, but I came forth from thy womb 
unfitted even for life. Yonder is a male sparrow 
hopping about with outspread wings; he is 
screaming—and every sound of his voice, every 
ruffed feather on his tiny body breathes forth 
health and strength. 

What is to be concluded from that? Nothing. 
He is healthy and has a right to scream and ruf- 
fle up his feathers; but I am ill and must die— 
that is all. It is not worth while to say any more 
about that. And tearful appeals to nature are 
comically absurd. Let us return to my story. 

I grew up, as I have already said, badly and 
not cheerfully. I had no brothers or sisters. I 
was educated at home. And, indeed, what would 
my mother have had to occupy her if I had been 
sent off to boarding-school or to a government 
institute? That ’s what children are for—to 
keep their parents from being bored. We lived 
chiefly in the country, and sometimes went to 
Moscow. I had governors and teachers, as is 
the custom. A cadaverous and tearful German, 
Riechmann, has remained particularly memorable 
to me,—a remarkably melancholy being, crip- 
pled by fate, who was fruitlessly consumed by an 
anguished longing for his native land. My man- 
nurse, Vasily, nicknamed “ The Goose,” would 


( 


THE DIARY OF 


sit, unshaved, in his everlasting old coat of blue 
frieze, beside the stove in the frightfully sti- 
fling atmosphere of the close anteroom, impreg- 
nated through and through with the sour odour 
of old kvas,—would sit and play cards with the 
coachman, Potap, who had just got a new sheep- 
skin coat, white as snow, and invincible tarred 
boots,—while Riechmann would be singing on the 
other side of the partition: 


** Herz, mein Herz, warum so traurig? 
Was bekiimmert dich so sehr? 
°S ist ja sch6n im fremden Lande— 
Herz, mein Herz, was willst du mehr? ”’ 


After my father’s death, we definitively re- 
moved to Moscow. I was then twelve years of 
age. My father died during the night of a stroke 
of apoplexy. I shall never forget that night. 
I was sleeping soundly, as all children are in 
the habit of sleeping; but I remember, that even 
athwart my slumber I thought I heard a heavy, 
laboured breathing. Suddenly I felt some one 
seize me by the shoulder and shake me. I open 
my eyes: in front of me stands my man-nurse. 
—* What ’s the matter? ’—“‘ Come along, come 
along, Alexyéi Mikhailitch is dying. . . .” I fly 
out of the bed like a mad creature, and into the 
bedroom. I look: my father is lying with his 
head thrown back, all red in the face. and rat- 
tling in his throat most painfully. The servants, 

8 





A SUPERFLUOUS MAN 


with frightened faces, throng the doors; in the 
anteroom some one inquires in a hoarse voice: 
“Has the doctor been sent for?” In the court- 
yard, a horse is being led out of the stable, the 
gate is creaking, a tallow candle is burning in 
the room on the floor; mamma is there also, over- 
whelmed, but without losing either her decorum 
or the consciousness of her own dignity. I flung 
myself on my father’s breast, embraced him, 
and stammered out: “ Papa, papa!” ... He lay 
motionless and puckered up his eyes in a strange 
sort of way. I looked him in the face—unbear- 
able horror stopped my breath; I squeaked with 
terror, like a roughly-grasped bird. They 
dragged me from him and carried me away. 
Only the night before, as though with a fore- 
boding of his approaching death, he had caressed 
me so fervently and so sadly. 

They brought a dishevelled and sleepy doctor, 
with a strong smell of lovage vodka. My father 
died under his lancet, and on the following 
day, thoroughly stupefied with grief, I stood 
with a candle in my hand in front of the table on 
which lay the corpse, and listened unheeding to 
the thick-voiced intoning of the chanter, occa- 
sionally broken by the feeble voice of the priest; 
tears kept streaming down my cheeks, over my 
lips, and my collar and my cuffs; I was consumed 
with tears, I stared fixedly at the motionless face 
of my father, as though I were expecting him to 


9 


THE DIARY OF 


do something; and my mother, meanwhile, slowly 
made reverences to the floor, slowly raised her- 
self and, as she crossed herself, pressed her fin- 
gers strongly to her brow, her shoulders, and her 
body. ‘There was not a single thought in my 
head; I had grown heavy all over, but I felt that 
something dreadful was taking place with me. 
.... It was then that Death looked into my 
face, and made a note of me. 

We removed our residence to Moscow, after the 
death of my father, for a very simple reason: all 
our estate was sold under the hammer for debt, 
—positively everything, with the exception of 
one wretched little hamlet, the very one in which 
I am now finishing my magnificent existence. I 
confess that, in spite of the fact that I was young 
at the time, I grieved over the sale of our nest; 
that is to say, in reality, I grieved over our park 
only. With that park are bound up my sole 
bright memories. There, on one tranquil spring 
evening, I buried my best friend, an old dog 
with a bob tail and crooked paws— Trixie; there, 
hiding myself in the tall grass, I used to eat 
stolen apples, red, sweet Novgorod apples; there, 
in conclusion, I for the first time beheld through 
the bushes of ripe raspberries, Klaudia the maid, 
who, despite her snub nose, and her habit of 
laughing in her kerchief, aroused in me such a 
tender passion that in her presence I hardly 
breathed, felt like swooning, and was stricken 

10 


A SUPERFLUOUS MAN 


dumb. But one day, on the Bright Sunday,’ 
when her turn came to kiss my lordly hand, I all 
but flung myself down and kissed her patched 
goatskin shoes. Great heavens! Can it be twenty 
years since all that happened? It does not seem 
so very long since I used to ride my shaggy, 
chestnut horse along the old wattled hedge of our 
park, and, rising in my stirrups, pluck the double- 
faced leaves of the poplars. While a man is 
living he is not conscious of his own life; like a 
sound, it becomes intelligible to him a little while 
afterward. 

Oh, my park! Oh, my overgrown paths along 
the little pond! Oh, unhappy little spot beneath 
the decrepit dam, where I used to catch min- 
nows and gudgeons! And you, ye lofty birch- 
trees, with long, pendulous branches, from 
behind which, from the country road, the mel- 
ancholy song of the peasant used to be wafted, 
unevenly broken by the jolts of the rough cart— 
I send you my last farewells! ... As I part 
with life I stretch out my hands to you alone. 
I should like once more to inhale the bitter fresh- 
ness of the wormwood, the sweet scent of the 
reaped buckwheat in the fields of my natal spot; 
I should like once more to hear from afar the 
modest jangling of the cracked bell on our 
parish church; once more to lie in the cool shadow 
beneath the oak-bush on the slope of the famil- 

1 Easter. —TRansiator. 


11 


THE DIARY OF 


iar ravine; once more to follow with my eyes the 
moving trace of the wind, as it flew like a dark 
streak over the golden grass of our meadow. . . . 

Ekh, to what end is all this? But I cannot 
go on to-day. Until to-morrow. 


March 22. 


To-pay it is cold and overcast again. Such wea- 
ther is far more suitable. It is in accord with 
my work. Yesterday quite unseasonably evoked 
in me a multitude of unnecessary feelings and 
memories. That will not be repeated. Emo- 
tional effusions are like liquorice-root: when you 
take your first suck at it, it does n’t seem bad, 
but it leaves a very bad taste in your mouth 
afterward. I will simply and quietly narrate 
the story of my life. 

So then, we went to live in Moscow. .. . 

But it just occurs to me: is it really worth 
while to tell the story of my life? 

No, decidedly it is not worth while... . My 
life is in no way different from the lives of a 
mass of other people. ‘The parental home, the 
university, service in inferior positions, retire- 
ment, a small circle of acquaintances, down- 
right poverty, modest pleasures, humble occupa- 
tions, moderate desires—tell me, for mercy’s 
sake, who does not know all that? And I, in 
particular, shall not tell the story of my life, be- 


12 


A SUPERFLUOUS MAN 


cause I am writing for my own pleasure; and if 
my past presents even to me nothing very cheer- 
ful, nor even very sorrowful, that means that 
there really can be nothing in it worthy of atten- 
tion. I had better try to analyse my own char- 
acter to myself. 

What sort of amanam I? . . . Some one may 
remark to me that no one asks about that.— 
Agreed. But, you see, I am dying,—God is my 
witness, I am dying,—and really before death 
the desire to know what sort of a fellow I have 
been is pardonable, I think. 

After having thoroughly pondered this im- 
portant question, and having, moreover, no need 
to express myself bitterly on my own score, as do 
people who are strongly convinced of their mer- 
its, I must confess one thing: I have been an 
utterly superfluous man in this world, or, if you 
like to put it that way, an utterly useless bird. 
And I intend to prove that to-morrow, because 
to-day I am coughing like an aged sheep, and 
my nurse, Teréntievna, will give me no peace. 
“Lie down, dear little father mine,” she says, 
“and drink your tea.” ...I know why she 
worries me: she wants some tea herself! Well! 
All right! Why not permit the poor old woman 
to extract, at the finish, all possible profit from 
her master? . . . The time for that has not yet 
gone by. 

13 


THE DIARY OF 


March 23. 
WINTER again. The snow is falling in large 
flakes. 

Superfluous, superfluous. . . . That ’s a capi- 
tal word I have devised. The more deeply I 
penetrate into myself, the more attentively I 
scrutinise the whole of my own past life, the 
more convinced do I become of the strict justice 
of that expression. Superfluous—precisely that. 
That word is not appropriate to other people. 
. . . People are bad, good, clever, stupid, agree- 
able, and disagreeable; but superfluous . 
no. That is to say, understand me: the universe 
could dispense with these people also... . of 
course; but uselessness is not their chief quality, 
is not their distinguishing characteristic, and 
when you are speaking of them, the word “ super- 
fluous”’ is not the first one that comes to your 
tongue. But I... . of me nothing else could 
possibly be said: superfluous—that is all. Nature 
had not, evidently, calculated on my appearance, 
and in consequence of this, she treated me like 
an unexpected and unbidden guest. Not without 
cause did one wag, a great lover of Swedish whist, 
say of me, that my mother had discarded.’ I 
speak of myself now calmly, without any gall. 
ew Dus thing ‘of the past! . Durmpitie 
whole course of my life I have constantly found 

1 A decidedly vulgar pun in the original. —Transtator. 


14 


A SUPERFLUOUS MAN 


my place occupied, possibly because I sought 
my place in the wrong direction. I was sus- 
picious, bashful, irritable, like all invalids; more- 
over, probably owing to superfluous vanity,—or 
by reason of the deficient organisation of my 
person,—between my feelings and my thoughts 
and the expression of those feelings and thoughts 
there existed some senseless, incomprehensible 
and insuperable barrier; and when I made up 
my mind to overcome that impediment by force, 
to break down that barrier, my movements, the 
expression of my face, my entire being as- 
sumed the aspect of anguished tension: I not 
only seemed, but I actually became unnatural and 
affected. I was conscious of it myself and made 
haste to retire again into myself. Then a fright- 
ful tumult arose within me. I analysed myself 
to the last shred; I compared myself with other 
people; I recalled the smallest glances, the smiles, 
the words of the people before whom I would 
have liked to expand; I interpreted everything 
from its bad side, and laughed maliciously over 
my pretensions “ to be like the rest of the world,” 
—and suddenly, in the midst of my laughter, 
I sadly relaxed utterly, fell into foolish dejec- 
tion, and then began the same thing all over 
again; in a word, I ran round like a squirrel in 
a wheel. Whole days passed in this torturing, 
fruitless toil. Come now, tell me, pray, to whom 
and for what is such a man of use? Why did 


15 


THE DIARY OF 


this happen with me, what was the cause of this 
minute fidgeting over myself—who knows? 
Who can say? 

I remember, one day I was driving out of Mos- 
cow in the diligence. The road was good, but 
the postilion had hitched an extra trace-horse to 
the four-span. This unhappy, fifth, wholly un- 
necessary horse, fastened in rough fashion to the 
fore-end of a thick, short rope, which ruthlessly 
saws its haunches, rubs its tail, makes it run 
in the most unnatural manner, and imparts to 
its whole body the shape of a comma, always 
arouses my profound compassion. I remarked 
to the postilion that, apparently, the fifth horse 
might be dispensed with on that occasion. ... . 
He remained silent awhile, shook the back of his 
neck, lashed the horse half a score of times in suc~ 
cession with his whip across its gaunt back and 
under its puffed-out belly—and said, not with- 
out a grin: “ Well, you see, it has stuck itself on, 
that ’s a fact! What the devil ’s the use?” 

And I, also, have stuck myself on. . . But the 
station is not far off, I think. 

Superfluous. .. . I promised to prove the 
justice of my opinion, and I will fulfil my 
promise. I do not consider it necessary to men- 
tion a thousand details, daily occurrences and in- 
cidents, which, moreover, in the eyes of every 
thoughtful man might serve as incontrovertible 
proofs in my favour—that is to say. in favour 

16 


A SUPERFLUOUS MAN 


of my view; it is better for me to begin directly 
with one decidedly important event, after which, 
probably, no doubt will remain as to the accuracy 
of the word superfluous. I repeat: I have no 
intention of entering into details, but I cannot 
pass over in silence one decidedly curious and 
noteworthy circumstance,—namely, the strange 
manner in which my friends treated me (I also 
had friends) every time I chanced to meet them, 
or even dropped in to see them. They seemed 
to grow uneasy; as they came to meet me they 
either smiled in a not entirely natural manner, 
looked not at my eyes, not at my feet, as some 
people do, but chiefly at my cheeks, hastily ejacu- 
lated: “ Ah! how do you do, Tchulkatirin! ” 
(Fate had favoured me with that name‘) or, 
“Ah! so here ’s Tchulkaturin!”” immediately 
stepped aside, went apart, and even remained for 
some time thereafter motionless, as though they 
were trying to recall something. I noticed all this, 
because I am not deficient in penetration and the 
gift of observation; on the whole, I am not 
stupid; decidedly amusing thoughts sometimes 
come into my head even, not at all ordinary 
thoughts; but, as I am a superfluous man with a 
dumbness inside me, I dread to express my 
thought, the more so, as I know beforehand that 
I shall express it very badly. It even seems 
strange to me, sometimes, that people can talk, 


1 Derived from tchuldk, stocking. —TransLaTor. 


17 


THE DIARY OF 


and so simply, so freely. . . . “ What a calam- 
ity! !” you think. I am bound to say that my 
tongue pretty often itched, in spite of my 
dumbness; and I actually did utter words in 
my youth, but in riper years I succeeded in 
restraining myself almost every time. I would 
say to myself in an undertone: “See here, 
now, ‘t will be better for me to hold my tongue 
awhile,” and I quieted down. We are all ex- 
perts at holding our tongues; our women in 
particular have that capacity: one exalted young 
Russian lady maintains silence so vigorously 
that such a spectacle is capable of producing a 
slight shiver and cold perspiration even in a man 
who has been forewarned. But that is not 
the point, and it is not for me to criticise other 
people. I will proceed to the promised story. 
Several years ago, thanks to a concurrence of 
trivial but, for me, very important circumstances, 
I chanced to pass six months in the county town 
of O***. This town is built entirely on a de- 
clivity. It has about eight hundred inhabitants, 
remarkably poor; the wretched little houses are 
outrageously bad; in the main street, under the 
guise of a pavement, formidable slabs of un- 
hewn limestone crop out whitely here and there, 
in consequence of which, even the peasant-carts 
drive around it; in the very centre of an astonish- 
ingly untidy square rises a tiny yellowish struc- 
ture with dark holes, and in the holes sit men in 
18 


A SUPERFLUOUS MAN 


large caps with visors, and pretend to be en- 
gaged in trade; there, also, rears itself aloft a 
remarkably tall, striped pole, and beside the pole, 
by way of order, at the command of the author- 
ities, a load of yellow hay is kept, and one gov- 
ernmental hen stalks about. In a word, in the 
town of O*** existence is excellent. 

During the early days of my sojourn in that 
town I nearly went out of my mind with ennui. 
I must say of myself that, although I am a su- 
perfluous man, of course, yet it is not of my 
own will; I am sickly myself, but I cannot endure 


anything sickly. . . . I would have no objec- 
tions to happiness, I have even tried to approach 
it from the right and from the left. . . . And, 


therefore, it is not surprising that I can also 
feel bored, like any other mortal. I found my- 
self in the town of O*** on business connected 
with the Government service. .. . 

Teréntievna is absolutely determined to kill 
me. Here is a specimen of our conversation: 

Teréntievna. O-okh, dear little father! why 
do you keep writing? It is n’t healthy for you 
to write. 

I. But I’m bored, Teréntievna. 

She. But do drink some tea and lie down. 

I. But I don’t feel sleepy. 

She. Akh, dear little father! Why do you 
say that? The Lord be with you! Lie down 
now, lie down: it ’s better for you. 

19 


THE DIARY OF 


I. I shall die anyway, Teréntievna. 

She. The Lord forbid and have mercy! ... 
Well, now, do you order me to make tea? 

I. I shall not survive this week, Teréntievna. 

She. Ii-i, dear little father! Why do you 
say that? . . . So I Il go and prepare the sam- 
ovar. 

Oh, decrepit, yellow, toothless creature! Is it 
possible that to you I am not a man! 


March 24. A hard frost. 
Own the very day of my arrival in the town of 
O***, the above-mentioned governmental busi- 
ness caused me to call on a certain Ozhogin, Kirill 
Matvyéevitch, one of the chief officials of the 
county; but I made acquaintance with him, or, 
as the saying is, got intimate with him, two weeks 
later. His house was situated on the principal 
street, and was distinguished from all the rest 
by its size, its painted roof, and two lions on the 
gate, belonging to that race of lions which bear 
a remarkable likeness to the unsuccessful dogs 
whose birthplace is Moscow. It is possible to 
deduce from these lions alone that Ozhégin was 
an opulent man. And, in fact, he owned four 
hundred souls of serfs;? he received at his house 
the best society of the town of O***, and bore 
the reputation of being a hospitable man. The 


1 Meaning male serfs. The women and children were not 
reckoned. — TRANSLATOR. 


20 


A SUPERFLUOUS MAN 


chief of police came to him, in a broad carroty- 
hued drozhky drawn by a pair of horses—a re- 
markably large man, who seemed to have been 
carved out of shop-worn material. Other officials 
visited him also: the pettifogger, a yellowish and 
rather malicious creature; the waggish surveyor, 
of German extraction, with a Tatar face; the 
officer of Ways of Communication, a tender soul, 
a singer, but a scandal-monger; a former county 
Marshal of Nobility, a gentleman with dyed 
hair, and rumpled cuffs, trousers with straps, 
and that extremely noble expression of counte- 
nance which is so characteristic of people who 
have been under trial by the courts. He was 
visited also by two landed proprietors, insep- 
arable friends, both no longer young, and even 
threadbare with age, the younger of whom was 
constantly squelching the elder, and shutting his 
mouth with one and the same reproach: “ Come, 
that will do, Sergyéi Sergyéitch! What do you 
know about it? For you write the word probka 
[cork] with the letter b. . . . Yes, gentlemen,” 
—he was wont to continue, with all the heat of 
conviction, addressing those present:—“ Ser- 
gyéi Sergyéitch writes not prdbka, but brobka.” 
And all present laughed, although, probably, 
not one of them was particularly distinguished 
for his skill in orthography; and the unhappy 
Sergyéi Sergyéitch held his peace, and bowed 
his head with a pacific smile. But I am forget- 
ting that my days are numbered, and am entering 


2] 


THE DIARY OF 


into too great detail. So then, without further 
circemlocution: Ozhogin was married and had 
a daughter, Elizavéta Kirillovna, and I fell in 
love with that daughter. 

Ozhogin himself was a commonplace man, nei- 
ther good nor bad; his wife was beginning to look 
a good deal like an aged hen; but their daughter 
did not take after her parents. She was very 
comely, of vivacious and gentle disposition. Her 
bright grey eyes gazed good-naturedly, and in 
a straightforward manner from beneath child- 
ishly-arched brows; she smiled almost constantly, 
and laughed also quite frequently. Her fresh 
voice had a very pleasant ring; she moved easily, 
swiftly, and blushed gaily. She did not dress 
very elegantly; extremely simple gowns suited her 
best. 

As a rule, I have never made acquaintance 
quickly, and if I have felt at ease with a person 
on first meeting,—which, however, has almost 
never been the case,—I confess that that has 
spoken strongly in favour of the new acquain- 
tance. I have not known how to behave to 
women at all, and in their presence I either 
frowned and assumed a fierce expression, or dis- 
played my teeth in a grin in the stupidest way, 
and twisted my tongue about in my mouth with 
embarrassment. With Elizavéta Kirillovna, on 
the contrary, I felt myself at home from the very 
first moment. This is how it came about. One 


22 


A SUPERFLUOUS MAN 


day I arrive at Ozhogin’s before dinner, and 
ask: “‘ Is he at home?” I am told: “ Yes, and he 
is dressing; please come into the hall.”* I go 
into the hall; I see a young girl in a white gown 
standing by the window, with her back toward 
me, and holding a cage in her hands. I curl 
up a little, according to my habit; but, neverthe- 
less, I cough out of propriety. The young girl 
turns round quickly, so quickly that her curls 
strike her in the face, catches sight of me, bows, 
and with a smile shows me a little box, half-filled 
with seed. 

“Will you excuse me?” 

Of course, as is customary in such circum- 
stances, I first bent my head, and, at the same 
time, crooked and straightened my knees (as 
though some one had hit me from behind in the 
back of my legs, which, as everybody knows, 
serves as a token of excellent breeding and agree- 
able ease of manner), and then smiled, raised my 
hand, and waved it twice cautiously and gently in 
the air. The girl immediately turned away from 
me, took from the cage a small board, and began 
to scrape it violently with a knife, and suddenly, 
without changing her attitude, gave utterance to 
the following words: 

“This is papa’s bull-finch. . . . Do you like 
bull-finches? ” 


1 The large music-room, also used for dancing, as a play-room for the 
children in winter, and so forth, in Russian houses. —TRansLaTor. 


23 


THE DIARY OF 


“| prefer canary-birds,’—I replied, not with- 
out a certain effort. 

“And I am fond of canary-birds also; but 
just look at him, see how pretty he is. See, he is 
not afraid.” —What surprised me was that I was 
not afraid.—“ Come closer. His name is Pépka.” 

I went up, and bent over. 

“He ’s very charming, is n’t he?” 

She turned her face toward me; but we were 
standing so close to each other that she was 
obliged to throw her head back a little, in order 
to look at me with her bright eyes. I gazed at 
her: the whole of her rosy young face was smil- 
ing in so friendly a manner that I smiled also, 
and almost laughed aloud with pleasure. The 
door opened; Mr. Ozhogin entered. I imme- 
diately went to him, and began to talk with him 
in a very unembarrassed way; I do not know 
myself how I came to stay to dinner; I sat out 
the whole evening, and on the following day, 
Ozhoégin’s lackey, a long, purblind fellow, was 
already smiling at me, as a friend of the house, 
as he pulled off my overcoat. 

To find a refuge, to weave for myself even a 
temporary nest, to know the joy of daily rela- 
tions and habits,—that was a happiness which 
I, a superfluous man, without domestic memories, 
had not experienced up to that time. If there 
were anything about me suggestive of a flower, 
and if that comparison were not so threadbare, I 

94, 


A SUPERFLUOUS MAN 


would decide to say that, from that hour, I began 
- to blossom out in spirit. Everything in me and 
round about me underwent such an instantaneous 
change! My whole life was illuminated by love, 
—literally my whole life, down to the smallest de- 
tails,—like a dark, deserted chamber into which 
a candle has been brought. I lay down to sleep 
and I rose up, dressed myself, breakfasted, and 
smoked my pipe in a way different from my 
habit; I even skipped as I walked,—really I did, 
as though wings had suddenly sprouted on my 
shoulders. I remember that I was not in doubt 
even for a minute, as to the feeling with which 
Elizavéta Kirillovna had inspired me; and from 
the very first day, I fell in love with her passion- 
ately, and from the very first day, too, I knew that 
I was in love. I saw her every day for the space 
of three weeks. ‘Those three weeks were the hap- 
piest time of my life; but the remembrance of 
them is painful to me. I cannot think of them 
alone: that which followed them involuntarily 
rises up before me, and venomous grief slowly 
grips the heart which had just grown soft. 
When a man is feeling very well, his brain, as 
every one knows, acts very little. A calm and 
joyous feeling, a feeling of satisfaction, per- 
meates his whole being; he is swallowed up in 
it; the consciousness of individuality vanishes in 
him—he is in a state of bliss, as badly educated 
poets say. But when, at last, that “spell ” passes 
25 


THE DIARY OF 


off, a man sometimes feels vexed and regretful 
that, in the midst of happiness, he was so unob- 
servant of himself that he did not redouble his 
thoughts, his reflections, and his memories, that 
he did not prolong his enjoyment... . as 
though a “blissful”? man had any time, and as 
though it were worth while to reflect about his 
own emotions! The happy man is like a fly in 
the sunshine. ‘That is why, when I recall those 
three weeks, I find it almost impossible to retain 
in my mind an accurate, definite impression, the 
more so, as in the whole course of that time, no- 
thing of particular note took place between us. 
. . . . Those twenty days present themselves to 
me as something warm, young, and fragrant, 
as a sort of bright streak in my dim and grey- 
hued life. My memory suddenly becomes im- 
placably faithful and clear, only dating from the 
moment when the blows of Fate descended upon 
me, speaking again in the words of those same 
ill-bred writers. 

Yes, those three weeks. . . . However, they 
did not precisely leave no images behind in me. 
Sometimes, when I happen to think long of that 
time, certain memories suddenly float forth from 
the gloom of the past—as the stars unexpectedly 
start forth in the evening sky to meet attentively- 
riveted eyes. Especially memorable to me is 
one stroll in a grove outside the town. There 
were four of us: old Madame Ozhogin, Liza, I, 

26 


A SUPERFLUOUS MAN 


and a certain Bizmyoénkoff, a petty official of 
the town of O***, a fair-haired, good-natured, 
and meek young man. I shall have occasion to 
allude to him again. Mr. Ozhdgin remained at 
home: his head ached, in consequence of his havy- 
ing slept too long. The day was splendid, warm, 
and calm. I must remark that gardens of enter- 
tainment and public amusement are not to the 
taste of the Russian. In governmental towns, 
in the so-called Public Gardens, you will never 
encounter a living soul at any season of the year; 
possibly some old woman will seat herself, grunt- 
ing, on a green bench baked through and through 
by the sun, in the neighbourhood of a sickly tree, 
and that only when there is no dirty little shop 
close to the gate. But if there is a sparse little 
birch-grove in the vicinity of the town, the mer- 
chants, and sometimes the officials, will gladly go 
thither on Sundays and feast-days, with their 
samovar, patties, water-melons, and set out all 
those good gifts on the dusty grass, right by the 
side of the road, seat themselves around, and eat 
and drink tea in the sweat of their brows until 
the very evening. Precisely that sort of small 
grove existed then two versts distant from the 
town of O***, We went thither after dinner, 
drank tea in due form, and then all four of us 
set off for a stroll through the grove. Bizmyén- 
koff gave his arm to old Madame Ozhégin; I gave 
mine to Liza. The day was already inclining 
27 


THE DIARY OF 


toward evening. I was then in the very ardour of 
first love (not more than a fortnight had elapsed 
since we had become acquainted), in that con- 
dition of passionate and attentive adoration, 
when your whole soul innocently and involun- 
tarily follows every motion of the beloved being; 
when you cannot satiate yourself with its pres- 
ence, or hear enough of its voice; when you smile 
and look like a convalescent child, and any man 
of a little experience must see at the first glance, 
a hundred paces off, what is going on in you. 

Up to that day, I had not once chanced to be 
arm in arm with Liza. I walked by her side, 
treading softly on the green grass. A _ light 
breeze seemed to be fluttering around us, between 
the white boles of the birch-trees, now and then 
blowing the ribbon of her hat in my face. With 
an importunate gaze I watched her, until, at last, 
she turned gaily to me, and we smiled at each 
other. The birds chirped approvingly overhead, 
the blue sky peered caressingly through the fine 
foliage. My head reeled with excess of pleasure. 
I hasten to remark that Liza was not in the 
least in love with me. She liked me; in general, 
she was not shy of any one, but I was not fated 
to disturb her childish tranquillity. She walked 
arm in arm with me, as with a brother. She was 
seventeen years old at the time. ... And yet, 
that same evening, in my presence, there began 
in her that quiet, inward fermentation, which 

28 


A SUPERFLUOUS MAN 


precedes the conversion of a child into a woman. 
. . . . I was witness to that change of the whole 
being, that innocent perplexity, that tremulous 
pensiveness; I was the first to note that sudden 
softness of glance, that ringing uncertainty of 
voice—and, oh, stupid fool! oh, superfluous man! 
for a whole week I was not ashamed to assume 
that I, I was the cause of that change! 

This is the way it happened. 

We strolled for quite a long time, until even- 
ing, and chatted very little. I held my peace, like 
all inexperienced lovers, and she, in all proba- 
bility, had nothing to say to me; but she seemed 
to be meditating about something, and shook her 
head in a queer sort of way, pensively nibbling at 
a leaf which she had plucked. Sometimes she 
began to stride forward in such a decided way 

. and then suddenly halted, waited for me 
and gazed about her with eyebrows elevated and 
an absent-minded smile. On the preceding even- 
ing, we had read together “ The Prisoner of the 
Caucasus.” * With what eagerness had she lis- 
tened to me, with her face propped on both hands, 
and her bosom resting against the table! I tried 
to talk about our reading of the evening before; 
she blushed, asked me whether I had given the 
bull-finch any hemp-seed before we started, be- 
gan to sing loudly some song, then suddenly 
ceased. The grove ended on one side in a rather 

1 By M. Y. Lérmontoff. 
29 


THE DIARY OF 


steep and lofty cliff; below flowed a small, mean- 
dering river, and beyond it, further than the eye 
could see, stretched endless meadows, now swell- 
ing slightly like waves, now spreading out like 
a table-cloth, here and there intersected with 
ravines. Liza and I were the first to emerge on 
the edge of the grove; Bizmyonkoff remained 
behind with the old lady. We came out, halted, 
and both of us involuntarily narrowed our eyes: 
directly opposite us, in the midst of the red-hot 
mist, the sun was setting, huge and crimson. 
Half the sky was aglow and flaming; the red 
rays beat aslant across the meadows, casting a 
scarlet reflection even on the shady side of the 
ravine, and lay like fiery lead upon the river, 
where it was not hidden under overhanging 
bushes, and seemed to be reposing in the lap of 
the ravine and the grove. We stood there 
drenched in the blazing radiance. It is beyond 
my power to impart all the passionate solemnity 
of that picture. They say that the colour red 
appeared to one blind man like the sound of 
a trumpet; I do not know to what degree that 
comparison is just; but, actually, there was 
something challenging in that flaming gold of 
the evening air, in the crimson glow of sky and 
earth. I cried out with rapture, and immediately 
turned to Liza. She was gazing straight at the 
sun. I remember, the glare of the sunset was re- 
flected in her eyes in tiny, flaming spots. She 
was startled, profoundiy moved. She made no 
30 


A SUPERFLUOUS MAN 


answer to my exclamation, did not stir for a long 
time, and hung her head. . . . I stretched out 
my hand to her; she turned away from me, and 
suddenly burst into tears. I gazed at her with 
secret, almost joyful surprise. . .. Bizmyénkoff’s 
voice rang out a couple of paces from us. Liza 
hastily wiped her eyes, and with a wavering 
smile looked at me. The old lady emerged from 
the grove, leaning on the arm of her fair-haired 
escort; both of them, in their turn, admired the 
view. ‘The old lady asked Liza some question, 
and I remember that I involuntarily shivered 
when, in reply, her daughter’s broken voice, like 
cracked glass, resounded in reply. In the mean- 
while, the sun had set, the glow was beginning 
to die out. We retraced our steps. I again gave 
Liza my arm. It was still light in the grove, and 
I could clearly discern her features. She was 
embarrassed, and did not raise her eyes. The 
flush which had spread all over her face did not 
disappear; she seemed still to be standing in the 
rays of the setting sun. ... Her arm barely 
touched mine. For a long time I could not start 
a conversation, so violently was my heart beating. 
We caught glimpses of the carriage far away, 
through the trees; the coachman was driving 
to meet us at a foot-pace over the friable sand of 
the road. 

~ Lizavéta Kirillovna,’—I- said at last,— 
“why did you weep?” 

“I don’t know,’—she answered after a brief 

31 


THE DIARY OF 


pause, looking at me with her gentle eyes, still 
wet with tears,—their glance seemed to me to 
have undergone a change,—and again fell silent. 

“I see that you love nature ....” I went 
on.—That was not in the least what I had 
meant to say, and my tongue hardly stam- 
mered out the last phrase to the end. She shook 
her head. I could not utter a word more. ... I 
was waiting for something .... not a con- 
fession—no, indeed! I was waiting for a confid- 
ing glance, a question. . . . But Liza stared at 
the ground and held her peace. I repeated once 
more, in an undertone: “ Why?” and received no 
reply. She was embarrassed, almost ashamed, 
I saw that. 

A quarter of an hour later, we were all seated 
in the carriage and driving toward the town. 
The horses advanced at a brisk trot; we dashed 
swiftly through the moist, darkening air. I sud- 
denly began to talk, incessantly addressing my- 
self now to Bizmyonkoff, now to Madame Ozho- 
gin. I did not look at Liza, but I could not 
avoid perceiving that from the corner of the car- 
riage her gaze never once rested on me. At home 
she recovered with a start, but would not read 
with me, and soon went off to bed. The break— 
that break of which I have spoken—had been ef- 
fected in her. She had ceased to be a little girl; 
she was already beginning to expect .. . like 
myself . .. . something or other. She did not 
have to wait long. 


32 


A SUPERFLUOUS MAN 


But that night I returned to my lodgings in 
a state of utter enchantment. The confused 
something, which was not exactly a foreboding, 
nor yet exactly a suspicion, that had arisen within 
me vanished: I ascribed the sudden constraint 
in Liza’s behaviour toward me to maidenly mod- 
esty, to timidity. . . . Had not I read a thou- 
sand times in many compositions, that the first 
appearance of love agitates and alarms a young 
girl? I felt myself very happy, and already 
began to construct various plans in my own 
THA! .4. 

If any one had then whispered in my ear: 
“Thou liest, my dear fellow! that ’s not in store 
for thee at all, my lad! thou art doomed to die 
alone in a miserable little house, to the intolerable 
grumbling of an old peasant-woman, who can 
hardly wait for thy death, in order that she may 
sell thy boots for a song... .” 

Yes, one involuntarily says, with the Russian 
philosopher: “ How is one to know what he does 
not know? ”’— Until to-morrow. 


March 25. <A white winter day. 
I HAVE read over what I wrote yesterday, and 
came near tearing up the whole note-book. It 
seems to me that my style of narrative is too pro- 
tracted and too mawkish. However, as my re- 
maining memories of that period present no- 
thing cheerful, save the joy of that peculiar 


33 


THE DIARY OF 


nature which Lérmontoff had in view when he 
said that it is a cheerful and a painful thing to 
touch the ulcers of ancient wounds, then why 
should not I observe myself? But I must not 
impose upon kindness. Therefore I will continue 
without mawkishness. 

For the space of a whole week, after that stroll 
outside the town, my position did not improve 
in the least, although the change in Liza became 
more perceptible every day. As I have already 
stated, I interpreted this change in the most fa- 
vourable possible light for myself. . . . The mis- 
fortune of solitary and timid men—those who 
are timid through self-love—consists precisely in 
this—that they, having eyes, and even keeping 
them staring wide open, see nothing, or see it 
in a false light, as though through coloured 
glasses. And their own thoughts and observa- 
tions hinder them at every step. 

In the beginning of our acquaintance Liza 
had treated me trustingly and frankly, like a 
child; perhaps, even, in her liking for me there 
was something of simple, childish affection. . . . 
But when that strange, almost sudden crisis took 
place in her, after a short perplexity, she felt her- 
self embarrassed in my presence, she turned away 
from me involuntarily, and at the same time 
grew sad and pensive. . . . She was expecting 

. what? She Herself did not know.... 
but I... . I, as I have already said, rejoiced 
4 


A SUPERFLUOUS MAN 


at that crisis. . . . As God is my witness, I al- 
most swooned with rapture, as the saying 1s. 
However, I am willing to admit that any one else 
in my place might have been deceived also. . . . 
Who is devoid of self-love? It is unnecessary to 
say that all this became clear to me only after a 
time, when I was compelled to fold my injured 
wings, which were not any too strong at best. 

The. misunderstanding which arose between 
Liza and me lasted for a whole week,—and 
there is nothing surprising about that: it has been 
my lot to be a witness of misunderstandings 
which have lasted for years and years. And who 
was it that said that only the true is real? A lie 
is as tenacious of life as is the truth, if not 
more so. It is a fact, I remember, that even dur- 
ing that week I had a pang now and then... . 
but a lonely man like myself, I will say once 
more, is as incapable of understanding what is 
going on within him as he is of comprehending 
what is going on before his eyes. Yes, and more 
than that: is love a natural feeling? Is it natural 
to a man to love? Love is a malady; and for a 
malady the law is not written. Suppose my 
heart did contract unpleasantly within me at 
times; but, then, everything in me was turned 
upside down. How is a man to know under such 
circumstances what is right and what is wrong, 
what is the cause, what is the significance of every 
separate sensation ? 


35 


THE DIARY OF 


But, be that as it may, all these misunderstand- 
ings, forebodings, and hopes were resolved in the 
following manner. 

One day,—it was in the morning, about eleven 
o’clock,—before I had contrived to set my foot 
in Mr. Ozhégin’s anteroom, an unfamiliar, ring- 
ing voice resounded in the hall, the door flew 
open, and, accompanied by the master of the 
house, there appeared on the threshold a tall, 
stately man of five-and-twenty, who hastily 
threw on his military cloak, which was lying on 
the bench, took an affectionate leave of Kirill 
Matvyéevitch, touched his cap negligently as he 
passed me—and vanished, clinking his spurs. 

“Who is that?”’—I asked Ozhogin. 

“Prince N***,”’—replied the latter, with a 
troubled face;—‘“‘ he has been sent from Peters- 
burg to receive the recruits. But where are those 
servants? ’—he went on with vexation:—“ there 
was no one to put on his cloak.” 

We entered the hall. 

‘“‘ Has he been here long?” —I inquired. 

“They say he came yesterday evening. I of- 
fered him a room in my house, but he declined it. 
However, he seems to be a very nice young 
fellow.” 

‘“ Did he stay long with you?” 

‘“ About an hour. He asked me to introduce 
him to Olympiada Nikitichna.” 

“And did you introduce him?” 

36 


A SUPERFLUOUS MAN 


* Certainly.” 
“ And did he make acquaintance with Lizavéta 


“Yes, he made her acquaintance, of course.” 

I said nothing for a while. 

“Has he come to remain long, do you know?” 

“ Yes, I think he will be obliged to stay here 
more than a fortnight.” 

And Kirill Matvyéevitch ran off to dress. 

I paced up and down the hall several times. I 
do not remember that Prince N***’s arrival pro- 
duced any special impression on me at the time, 
except that unpleasant sensation which usually 
takes possession of us at the appearance of a new 
face in our domestic circle. Perhaps that feeling 
was mingled with something in the nature of 
envy of the timid and obscure Moscow man for 
the brilliant officer from Petersburg.—“* The 
Prince,’—I thought,—“ is a dandy of the capi- 
tal; he will look down on us.” . . . I had not seen 
him for more than a minute, but I had managed 
to note that he was handsome, alert, and easy- 
mannered. 

After pacing the hall for a while, I came to 
a halt, at last, in front of a mirror, pulled from 
my pocket a tiny comb, imparted to my hair a 
picturesque disorder and, as sometimes happens, 
suddenly became engrossed in the contemplation 
of my own visage. I remember that my attention 
was concentrated with particular solicitude on 


37 


THE DIARY OF 


my nose; the rather flabby and undefined out- 
line of that feature was affording me no special 
gratification—when, all of a sudden, in the dark 
depths of the inclined glass, which reflected al- 
most the entire room, the door opened, and the 
graceful figure of Liza made its appearance. I 
do not know why I did not stir and kept the 
same expression on my face. Liza craned her 
head forward, gazed attentively at me and, ele- 
vating her eyebrows, biting her lips, and holding 
her breath, like a person who is delighted that he 
has not been seen, cautiously retreated, and softly 
drew the door to after her. The door creaked 
faintly. Liza shuddered, and stood stock-still on 
the /spot..<. ».; Ei did not move. .. .:, Agamysge 
pulled at the door-handle, and disappeared. 
There was no possibility of doubt: the expression 
of Liza’s face at the sight of my person denoted 
nothing except a desire to beat a successful re- 
treat, to avoid an unpleasant meeting; the swift 
gleam of pleasure which I succeeded in detecting 
in her eyes, when she thought that she really had 
succeeded in escaping unperceived,—all that said 
but too clearly: that young girl was not in love 
with me. For a long, long time I could not with- 
draw my gaze from the motionless, dumb door, 
which again presented itself as a white spot in 
the depths of the mirror; I tried to smile at my 
own upright figure—hung my head, returned 
home, and flung myself on the divan. I felt re- 
38 


A SUPERFLUOUS MAN 


markably heavy at heart, so heavy that I could 


not weep... . and what was there to weep 
about? .... “Can it be?”—I kept reiterating 


incessantly, as I lay, like a dead man, on my back, 
and with my hands folded on my breast:—“‘ Can 
nepe? '. . 6. kow do you like that) *@anait 
be?” 


March 26. A thaw. 


WHEN, on the following day, after long hesi- 
tation and inward quailing, I entered the famil- 
iar drawing-room of the Ozhdgins’, I was no 
longer the same man whom they had known for 
the space of three weeks. All my former habits, 
from which I had begun to wean myself under 
the influence of an emotion which was new to me, 
had suddenly made their appearance again, and 
taken entire possession of me like the owners re- 
turning to their house. 

People like myself are generally guided not 
so much by positive facts, as by their own im- 
pressions; I, who, no longer ago than the pre- 
vious evening, had been dreaming of “the rap- 
tures of mutual love,” to-day cherished not the 
slightest doubt as to my own “ unhappiness,” and 
was in utter despair, although I myself was not 
able to discover any reasonable pretext for my 
despair. I could not be jealous of Prince N***, 
and whatever merits he might possess, his mere ar- 
rival was not sufficient instantly to extirpate 


39 


THE DIARY OF 


Liza’s inclination for me. ... But stay!—did 
that inclination exist? I recalled the past. “ And 
the stroll in the forest?”’ I asked myself. ‘“ And 
the expression of her face in the mirror? ”’— 
‘ But,” I went on,—“ the stroll in the forest, ap- 
parently. . . . Phew, good heavens! What an 
insignificant being I am!”’ I exclaimed aloud, at 
last. This is a specimen of the half-expressed, 
half-thought ideas which, returning a thousand 
times, revolved in a monotonous whirlwind in my 
head. I repeat,—I returned to the Ozhégins’ the 
same mistrustful, suspicious, constrained person 
that I had been from my childhood. . . . 

I found the whole family in the drawing-room; 
Bizmyonkoff was sitting there also, in one corner. 
All appeared to be in high spirits: Ozhégin, in 
particular, was fairly beaming, and _ his first 
words were to communicate to me that Prince 
N*** had spent the whole of the preceding even- 
ing with them.—“ Well,” I said to myself, “ now 
I understand why you are in such good humour.” 
I must confess that the Prince’s second call puz- 
zled me. I had not expected that. Generally 
speaking, people like me expect everything in 
the world except that which ought to happen in 
the ordinary run of things. I sulked and as- 
sumed the aspect of a wounded, but magnani- 
mous man; I wanted to punish Liza for her un- 
graciousness; from which, moreover, it must be 
concluded, that, nevertheless, I was not yet in 


40 


A SUPERFLUOUS MAN 


utter despair. They say, in some cases when you 
are really beloved, it is even advantageous to 
torture the adored object; but in my position, 
it was unutterably stupid. Liza, in the most in- 
nocent manner, paid no attention whatever to me. 
Only old Madame Ozhégin noticed my solemn 
taciturnity, and anxiously inquired after my 
health. Of course I answered her with a bitter 
smile that “I was perfectly well, thank God.” 
Ozhdégin continued to dilate on the subject of 
his visitor; but, observing that I answered him 
reluctantly, he addressed himself chiefly to Biz- 
myonkoff, who was listening to him with great 
attention, when a footman entered and an- 
nounced Prince N***. ‘The master of the house 
instantly sprang to his feet, and rushed forth 
to welcome him! Liza, on whom I immediately 
darted an eagle glance, blushed with pleasure, 
and fidgeted about on her chair. The Prince 
entered, perfumed, gay, amiable... . 

As I am not composing a novel for the in- 
dulgent reader, but simply writing for my own 
pleasure, there is no necessity for my having re- 
course to the customary devices of the literary 
gentlemen. So I will say at once, without fur- 
ther procrastination, that Liza, from the very 
first day, fell passionately in love with the Prince, 
and the Prince fell in love with her—partly for 
the lack of anything to do, but also partly because 
Liza really was a very charming creature. There 


4] 


THE DIARY OF 


was nothing remarkable in the fact that they fell 
in love with each other. He, in all probability, 
had not in the least expected to find such a pearl 
in such a wretched shell (I am speaking of the 
God-forsaken town of O***) , and she, up to that 
time, had never beheld, even in her dreams, any- 
thing in the least like this brilliant, clever, fasci- 
nating aristocrat. 

After the preliminary greetings, Ozhdogin in- 
troduced me to the Prince, who treated me very 
politely. As a rule, he was polite to every 
one, and despite the incommensurable distance 
which existed between him and our obscure rural 
circle, he understood not only how to avoid em- 
barrassing any one, but even to have the appear- 
ance of being our equal, and of only happening 
to live in St. Petersburg. 

That first evening. . . . Oh, that first even- 
ing! In the happy days of our childhood, our 
teachers used to narrate to us and hold up to us 
as an example of manly fortitude the young 
Lacedemonian who, having stolen a fox and hid- 
den it under his cloak, never once uttered a sound, 
but permitted the animal to devour all his entrails, 
and thus preferred death to dishonour. ... I 
can find no better expression of my unutterable 
sufferings in the course of that evening, when, 
for the first time, I beheld the Prince by Liza’s 
side. My persistent, constrained smile, my an- 
guished attention, my stupid taciturnity, my pain- 

42 


A SUPERFLUOUS MAN 


ful and vain longing to depart, all this, in all 
probability, was extremely noticeable in its way. 
Not one fox alone was ravaging my vitals— Jjeal- 
ousy, envy, the consciousness of my own insig- 
nificance, and impotent rage were rending me. 
I could not but admit that the Prince was really 
a very amiable young man. . . . I devoured him 
with my eyes; I really believe that I forgot to 
wink as I gazed at him. He did not chat with 
Liza exclusively, but, of course, he talked for 
her alone. I must have bored him extremely. 
. . . » He probably soon divined that he had to 
do with a discarded lover, but, out of compassion 
for me, and also from a profound sense of my 
perfect harmlessness, he treated me with extraor- 
dinary gentleness. You can imagine how that 
hurt me! 

I remember that, in the course of the evening, 
I tried to efface my fault; I (do not laugh at me, 
whoever you may be under whose eyes these 
lines may chance to fall, especially as this was my 
final dream) . . . . I suddenly took it into my 
head, God is my witness, among the varied tor- 
ments, that Liza was trying to punish me for my 
arrogant coldness at the beginning of my visit; 
that she was angry with me, and was flirting with 
the Prince merely out of vexation at me. I 
seized a convenient opportunity, and approach- 
ing her with a meek but caressing smile, I mur- 
mured: “ Enough, forgive me . . . however, I 

43 


THE DIARY OF 


do not ask it because I am afraid ”’—and without 
awaiting her answer, I suddenly imparted to my 
face an unusually vivacious and easy expression, 
gave a wry laugh, threw my hand up over my 
head in the direction of the ceiling (I remember 
that I was trying to adjust my neckcloth), and 
was even on the point of wheeling round on one 
foot, as much as to say: “ All is over, I ’m in 
fine spirits, let every one be in fine spirits!” but 
I did not wheel round, nevertheless, because I 
was afraid of falling, owing to an unnatural 
stiffness in my knees. . . Liza did not under- 
stand me in the least, looked into my face with 
surprise, smiled hurriedly, as though desirous of 
getting rid of me as promptly as possible, and 
again approached the Prince. Blind and deaf 
as I was, I could not but inwardly admit that she 
was not at all angry nor vexed with me at that 
moment; she simply was not thinking about me. 
The blow was decisive, my last hopes crumbled 
to ruin with a crash—as a block of ice pene- 
trated with the spring sun suddenly crumbles 
into tiny fragments. I had received a blow on 
the head at the first assault, and, like the Prus- 
sians at Jena, in one day I lost everything. No, 
she was not angry with me! . . 

Alas! on the contrary! She herself—I could 
see that—was being undermined, as with a bil- 
low. Like a young sapling, which has already 
half deserted the bank, she bent eagerly forward 


44 


A SUPERFLUOUS MAN 


over the flood, ready to surrender to it both the 
first blossoming of her spring, and her whole life. 
Any one to whose lot it has fallen to be a witness 
to such an infatuation has lived through bitter 
moments, if he himself loved and was not beloved. 
I shall forever remember the devouring atten- 
tion, the tender gaiety, the innocent self-forget- 
fulness, the glance, half-childish and already 
womanly, the happy smile which blossomed forth, 
as it were, and never left the half-parted lips 
and the blushing cheeks. ... Everything of 
which Liza had had a dim foreboding during our 
stroll in the grove had now come to pass—and 
she, surrendering herself wholly to love, had, at 
the same time, grown quiet and sparkling like 
young wine which has ceased to ferment, because 
its time has come. . . . 

I had the patience to sit out that first evening, 
and the evenings which followed ... . all, to 
the very end! I could cherish no hope whatso- 
ever. Liza and the Prince grew more and 
more attached to each other with every day that 
passed. st. But I positively lost all sense of 
my own dignity, and could not tear myself 
away from the spectacle of my unhappiness. I 
remember that one day I made an effort not 
to go, gave myself my word of honour in the 
morning that I would remain at home,—and 
at eight o'clock in the evening (I usually 
went out at seven), I jumped up like a lunatic, 

45 


THE DIARY OF 


put on my hat, and ran, panting, to Kirill 
Matvyéevitch’s. 

My position was extremely awkward; I main- 
tained obdurate silence, and sometimes for days 
at a stretch never uttered a sound. I have 
never been distinguished for eloquence, as I have 
already said; but now every bit of sense I had 
seemed to fly away in the presence of the Prince, 
and I remained as poor as a church mouse. 
Moreover, in private, I forced my unhappy 
brain to toil to such a degree, slowly pondering 
over everything I had marked or noted in the 
course of the preceding day, that when I returned 
to the Ozhogins’, I hardly had enough strength 
left to continue my observations. They spared 
me as they would a sick man, I saw that. Every 
morning I reached a fresh, definitive decision, 
which had chiefly been hatched out during a sleep- 
less night. Now I prepared to have an explana- 
tion with Liza, to give her some friendly advice 
. . . but when I happened to be alone with her, 
my tongue suddenly ceased to act, as though it 
had congealed, and we both painfully awaited 
the appearance of a third person; then, again, I 
wanted to flee, for good and all, leaving behind 
me, for the object of my affections of course, a 
letter filled with reproaches; and one day I set 
about that letter, but the sense of justice had not 
yet quite vanished from within me; I under- 
stood that I had no right to upbraid any one for 

46 


A SUPERFLUOUS MAN 


anything, and flung my note into the fire; again 
I suddenly offered the whole of myself as a sac- 
rifice, in magnanimous fashion, and gave Liza 
my blessing, wishing her happiness in her love, 
and smiled in a gentle and friendly way on the 
Prince from a corner. But the hard-hearted 
lovers not only did not thank me for my sacrifice, 
they did not even perceive it, and evidently stood 
in no need either of my blessings or of my smiles. 
.. . Then, with vexation, I suddenly passed 
over into the diametrically opposite frame of 
mind. I promised myself, as I swathed myself 
in my cloak, Spanish fashion, to cut the lucky 
rival’s throat from round a corner, and with the 
joy of a wild beast, I pictured to myself Liza’s 
despair. . . . But, in the first place, in the town 
of O*** there were very few such corners, and, 
in the second place, a board fence, a street-lan- 
tern, a policeman in the distance. ... No! at such 
-a corner as that it would be more seemly to peddle 
rings of bread than to shed human blood. I 
must confess that, among other means of deliv- 
erance,—as I very indefinitely expressed it when 
holding a conference with myself,—I thought of 
appealing straight to Mr. Ozhogin.... of 
directing the attention of that nobleman to 
the dangerous position of his daughter, to the 
sad consequences of her frivolity. ... I even 
began to talk with him one day on the very 
ticklish subject, but framed my speech so craftily 
47 


THE DIARY OF 


and obscurely, that he listened and listened to me, 
and suddenly, as though awaking from sleep, 
swiftly rubbed the palm of his hand all over his 
face, not sparing even his nose, snorted, and 
walked away from me. 

It is needless to say that, on adopting that de- 
cision, I assured myself that I was acting from 
the most disinterested motives, that I was de- 
sirous of the universal welfare, that I was ful- 
filling the duty of a friend of the family. ... But 
I venture to think that even if Kirill Matvyée- 
vitch had not cut short my effusions, I should still 
have lacked the courage to finish my monologue. 
IT sometimes undertook, with the pompousness of 
an ancient sage, to weigh the Prince’s merits; I 
sometimes comforted myself with the hope that 
it was merely a passing fancy, that Liza would 
come to her senses, that her love was not genuine 
love. . . . Oh, no! Ina word, I do not know of 
a thought over which I did not brood at that time. 
One remedy alone, I frankly confess, never en- 
tered my head; namely, it never once occurred to 
me to commit suicide. Why that did not occur 


to me, I do not know. . . . Perhaps even then 
I had a foreboding that I had not long to live in 
any case. 


It is easy to understand that, under such un- 
toward conditions, my conduct, my behaviour to- 
ward other people, was more characterised by 
unnaturalness and constraint than ever. Even old 


48 


A SUPERFLUOUS MAN 


lady Ozhégin—that dull-witted being—began tc 
shun me, and at times did not know from which 
side to approach me. Bizmyonkoff, always cour- 
teous and ready to be of service, avoided me. It 
also seemed to me then that in him I had a fellow- 
sufferer, that he also loved Liza. But he never 
replied to my hints, and, in general, talked to me 
with reluctance. The Prince behaved in a very 
friendly manner to him; I may say that the 
Prince respected him. Neither Bizmyonkoff 
nor I interfered with the Prince and Liza; but 
he did not shun them as I did, he did not look 
like a wolf nor like a victim—and gladly joined 
them whenever they wished it. He did not dis- 
tinguish himself particularly by jocularity on 
such occasions, it is true; but even in times past 
there had been a quiet element in his mirth. 

In this manner about two weeks passed. The 
Prince was not only good-looking and clever: he 
played on the piano, sang, drew very respectably, 
and knew how to narrate well. His anecdotes, 
drawn from the highest circles of society in the 
capital, always produced a strong impression on 
the hearers, which was all the more powerful 
because he himself did not seem to attribute any 
particular importance to them... . 

The consequence of this guile, if you choose to 
call it so, on the Prince’s part was, that in the 
course of his brief sojourn in the town of O*** 
he absolutely bewitched the whole of societv there. 


49 


THE DIARY OF 


It is always very easy for a man from the highest 
circles to bewitch us steppe-dwellers. The 
Prince’s frequent calls on the Ozhogins (he spent 
his evenings at their house) , as a matter of course, 
aroused the envy of the other nobles and officials; 
but the Prince, being a man of the world and 
clever, did not neglect a single one of them, 
called on all of them, said at least one pleasant 
word to all the dames and young ladies, permitted 
himself to be stuffed with laboriously-heavy 
viands and treated to vile wines with magnificent 
appellations; in a word, behaved himself admir- 
ably, cautiously, and cleverly. Prince N*** was, 
altogether, a man of cheerful disposition, socia- 
ble, amiable by inclination, and as a matter of cal- 
culation also: how yas it possible for him to 
be otherwise than a complete success in every 
way? 

From the time of his arrival, every one in the 
house had thought that the time flew by with re- 
markable swiftness; everything went splendidly; 
old Ozhégin, although he pretended not to notice 
anything, was, in all probability, secretly rub- 
bing his hands at the thought of having such a 
son-in-law. The Prince himself was conducting 
the whole affair very quietly and decorously, 
when, all of a sudden, an unforeseen event... . 

Until to-morrow. To-day I am weary. These 
reminiscences chafe me, even on the brink of the 
grave. 'Teréntievna thought to-day that my nose 

50 


A SUPERFLUOUS MAN 


had grown even more pointed; and that ’s a bad 
sign, they say. 


March 27. The thaw continues. 
Marrers were in the above-described condition: 
the Prince and Liza loved each other, the elder 
Ozhogins were waiting to see what would hap- 
pen; Bizmyonkoff was present also—nothing 
else could be said of him; I was flopping like a 
fish on the ice, and keeping watch to the best of 
my ability,—I remember that at that time I ap- 
pointed to myself the task of at least not allow- 
ing Liza to perish in the snare of the seducer, and 
in consequence thereof, I had begun to pay par- 
ticular attention to the maid-servants and the 
fatal “ back” entrance—although, on the other 
hand, I sometimes dreamed for whole nights to- 
gether about the touching magnanimity with 
which, in the course of time, I would extend my 
hand to the deluded victim and say to her: “ The 
wily man has betrayed thee; but I am thy faith- 
Holeimend.-. > let; us forget the, past. and be 
happy!”’—when, suddenly, a joyful piece of 
news was disseminated throughout the town: the 
Marshal of Nobility for the county intended to 
give a large ball in honour of the respected visi- 
tor, at his own estate Gornostdevka, also called 
Gubnyakova. All the hierarchies and powers of 
the town of O*** received invitations, beginning 
with the chief of police and ending with the 


51 


THE DIARY OF 


apothecary, a remarkably pimple-faced German, 
with cruel pretensions to the ability to speak Rus- 
sian purely, in consequence of which, he was con- 
stantly using violent expressions with absolute 
inappropriateness, as, for instance: “ Devil take 
me, I feel a dashing fine fellow to-day.”*... 
Terrible preparations began, as was fitting. 
One cosmetic-shop sold sixteen dark-blue jars of 
pomade, with the inscription, “a la jesmin ” with 
the Russian character denoting the hard pronun- 
ciation after the n. The young ladies supplied 
themselves with stiff gowns, torturingly tight 
at the waist-line, and with promontories on the 
stomach; the mammas erected on their own heads 
formidable decorations, under the pretext that 
they were caps; the bustling fathers lay without 
their hind legs, as the saying is.” . . 

The longed-for day arrived at last. I was 
among those invited. ‘The distance from the 
town to Gornostaevka was reckoned at nine 
versts. Kirila Matvyéevitch offered me a seat 
in his carriage; but I declined. . . . Thus do 
chastised children, desirous of revenging them- 
selves well on their parents, refuse their favourite 
viands at table. Moreover, I felt that my pres- 
ence would embarrass Liza. Bizmyonkoff took 
my place. The Prince drove out in his own 
calash, I in a miserable drozhky, which I had 

* The pronunciation is also indicated as being faulty. —TransLator. 

2 Ran themselves off their legs. —TRANsLaTor. 


52 


A SUPERFLUOUS MAN 


hired at an exorbitant price for this festive oc- 
casion. 

I will not describe the ball. Everything about 
it was as usual: musicians with remarkably false 
horns in the gallery; flustered landed proprie- 
tors with antiquated families; lilac ice-cream, 
slimy orgeat; men in patched boots and knitted 
cotton gloves; provincial lions with convulsively- 
distorted faces; and so forth, and so forth. And 
all this little world circled round its sun—round 
the Prince. Lost in the throng, unnoticed even 
by the maidens of eight-and-forty with pimples 
on their brows and blue flowers on their temples, 
I kept incessantly gazing now at the Prince, now 
at Liza. She was very charmingly dressed and 
very pretty that evening. They only danced to- 
gether twice (he danced the mazurka’* with her, 
*t is true!), but, at all events, so it seemed to 
me, there existed between them a certain mys- 
terious, unbroken communication. Even when 
he was not looking at her, was not talking 
to her, he seemed constantly to be addressing her, 
and her alone; he was handsome and brilliant, 
and charming with others—for her alone. She 
was evidently conscious that she was the queen of 
the ball—and beloved; her face simultaneously 
beamed with childish joy and innocent pride, and 


1 The mazurka, which is still a great favourite in Russia, greatly 
resembles the cotillon in everything except the steps, which are viva- 
cious. Both the cotillon and the mazurka are danced—one before, 
the other after supper —at Court balls and other dances. —Transator. 


53 


THE ‘DIARY OF 


then suddenly was lighted up with a different, a 
more profound feeling. She exhaled an atmos- 
phere of happiness. I observed all this... . It 
was not the first time I had had occasion to watch 
them. . . . At first this greatly pained me, then 
it seemed to touch me, and at last it enraged me. 
I suddenly felt myself remarkably malicious and, 
I remember, I rejoiced wonderfully over this new 
sensation, and even conceived a certain respect 
for myself. “ Let ’s show them that we have n’t 
perished yet!” I said to myself. When the first 
sounds summoning to the mazurka thundered 
out, I calmly glanced around, coldly, and with 
much ease of manner, approached a long-faced 
young lady with a red and shining nose, an awk- 
wardly gaping mouth, which looked as though 
it had been unhooked, and a sinewy neck, which 
reminded one of the handle of a bass-viol,—ap- 
proached her, and curtly clicking my heels to- 
gether, invited her for the dance. She wore a 
pink gown, which seemed to have faded recently 
and not quite completely; above her head quiv- 
ered some sort of a faded melancholy fly on a 
very thick brass spring; and, altogether, the 
young woman was impregnated through and 
through, if one may so express one’s self, with a 
sort of sour boredom and antiquated ill-success. 
From the very beginning of the evening, she had 
not stirred from her seat; no one had thought of 
asking her to dance. One sixteen-year-old youth, 


54 


A SUPERFLUOUS MAN 


in default of any other partner, had been on the 
point of appealing to this young woman, and had 
already taken one step in her direction, but had 
bethought himself, taken one look, and briskly 
concealed himself in the crowd. You can im- 
agine with what joyful surprise she accepted my 
proposal! 

I solemnly led her the whole length of the hall, 
found two chairs, and seated myself with her in 
the circle of the mazurka, the tenth pair, almost 
opposite the Prince, to whom, of course, the first 
place had been conceded. The Prince, as I have 
,already said, was dancing with Liza. Neither 
my partner nor I were incommoded with invita- 
tions; consequently, we had plenty of time for 
conversation. ‘Truth to tell, my lady was not dis- 
tinguished by ability to utter words in coherent 
speech: she employed her mouth more for the 
execution of a strange downward smile, hitherto 
unbeheld by me; at the same time, she rolled her 
eyes upward, as though some invisible force were 
stretching her face; but I had no need of her 
eloquence. Fortunately, I felt vicious, and my 
partner did not inspire me with timidity. I set 
to criticising everything and everybody in the 
world, laying special stress on whipper-snappers 
from the capital, and Petersburg fops, and 
waxed so angry, at last, that my lady gradually 
ceased to smile, and instead of rolling her eyes 
upward, she suddenly began—with amazement, 


55 


THE DIARY OF 


it must have been—to look cross-eyed, and in 
such a queer way, to boot, as though she had per- 
ceived, for the first time, that she had a nose 
on her face; and my next neighbour, one of those 
lions of whom I have spoken above, more than 
once scanned me with a glance, even turned to 
me with the expression of an actor on the stage 
who has waked up in an unknown land, as much 
as to say: “ Art thou still at it?” However, while 
I sang like a nightingale, as the saying is, I still 
continued to watch the Prince and Liza. They 
were constantly invited; but I suffered less when 
both of them were dancing; and even when they 
were sitting side by side and chatting with each 
other, and smiling with that gentle smile which 
refuses to leave the face of happy lovers,—even 
then I was not so greatly pained; but when Liza 
was fluttering through the hall with some gallant 
dandy, and the Prince, with her blue gauze scarf 
on his knees, thoughtfully followed her with his 
eyes, as though admiring his conquest,—then, 
oh, then I experienced unbearable tortures, and 
in my vexation I emitted such malicious remarks, 
that the pupils of my partner’s eyes reclined com- 
pletely from both sides, on her nose! 

In the meantime, the mazurka was drawing to 
a close. . . . They began to execute the figure 
known as “la confidente.” In this figure the 
lady seats herself in the centre of the circle, 
chooses another lady for her confidante and 


56 


A SUPERFLUOUS MAN 


whispers in her ear the name of the gentleman 
with whom she wishes to dance; the cavalier leads 
up to her the dancers, one by one, and the con- 
fidante refuses them until, at last, the happy 
man who has already been designated makes his 
appearance. Liza sat in the centre of the circle, 
and chose the daughter of the hostess, one of 
those young girls of whom it is said that they are 
“ God bless them.” ' The Prince began to search 
for the chosen man. In vain did he present about 
half a score of young men (the hostess’ daughter 
refused them all, with a pleasant smile), and, at 
last, had recourse to me. Something unusual 
took place in me at that moment: I seemed to 
wink with my whole body, and tried to decline; 
nevertheless, I rose and went. The Prince con- 
ducted me to Liza. . . . She did not even glance 
at me; the hostess’ daughter shook her head in 
negation, the Prince turned toward me, and, 
prompted probably by the goose-like expression 
of my face, made me a profound bow. This 
mocking reverence, this refusal, presented to me 
by my triumphant rival, his negligent smile, 
Liza’s indifferent inattention,—all this provoked 
an explosion on my part. I stepped up to the 
Prince and whispered in a frenzied rage: “I 
think you are permitting yourself to jeer at me?” 

The Prince stared at me with scornful sur- 
prise, again took me by the hand, and with the air 


1 Utterly insignificant. —TransLator. 


57 


THE DIARY OF 


of leading me back to my seat, replied coldly: 
“qT?” 

“Yes, you, you!””—I went on in a whisper, 
obeying him, nevertheless; that is to say, follow- 
ing him to my seat;—“ you! But I do not intend 
to allow any frivolous Petersburg upstart .. .” 

The Prince smiled calmly, almost patronis- 
ingly, gripped my hand hard, whispered: “I 
understand you; but this is not the proper place; 
we will talk it over,” turned away from me, 
approached Bizmyonkoff and led him to Liza. 
The pale little petty official proved to be the 
chosen cavalier. Liza rose to meet him. 

As I sat beside my partner with the melancholy 
fly on her head, I felt myself almost a hero. My 
heart thumped violently within me, my bosom 
swelled nobly under my starched shirt-front, my 
breath came fast and deep—and all of a sudden, 
I stared at the adjacent lion in so magnificent 
a manner, that he involuntarily wiggled the leg 
which was turned toward me. Having rid my- 
self of this man, I ran my eyes over the circle 
of dancers. . . . It seemed to me that two or 
three gentlemen were gazing at me not without 
amazement; but, on the whole, my conversation 
with the Prince had not been noticed. . . . My 
rival was already seated on his chair, perfectly 
composed, and with his. former smile on his face. 
Bizmyonkoff led Liza to her place. She gave 
him a friendly nod and immediately turned to 


58 


A SUPERFLUOUS MAN 


the Prince, as it seemed to me, with a certain 
anxiety; but he laughed in response, waved his 
hand gracefully, and must have said something 
very agreeable to her, for she flushed all over 
with pleasure, dropped her eyes, and then riveted 
them on him once more with affectionate re- 
proach. 

The heroic frame of mind which had suddenly 
developed in me did not disappear until the end 
of the mazurka; but I made no more jests, and 
did not criticise, and merely cast a severe and 
gloomy glance from time to time at my lady, 
who was, evidently, beginning to be afraid of 
me, and was reduced to a state of complete stam- 
mering and winked incessantly, when I led her 
to the natural stronghold of her mother, a very 
fat woman with a red head-dress. Having 
handed over the frightened young girl as be- 
hooved me, I walked off to the window, clasped 
my hands, and waited to see what would 
happen. I waited a good while. The Prince was 
constantly surrounded by the host,— precisely 
that, surrounded, as England is surrounded by 
the sea,—not to mention the other members of the 
county Marshal of the Nobility’s family, and 
the other guests; and, moreover, he could not, 
without arousing universal surprise, approach 
such an insignificant man as I, and enter into 
conversation with him. This insignificance of 
mine, I remember, was even a source of delight 


59 


THE DIARY OF 


to me then. ‘“ Fiddlesticks!” I thought, as I 
watched him turning courteously now to one, now 
to another respected personage who sought the 
honour of being noticed by him, if only for “ the 
twinkling of an eye,” as the poets say:—“ Fiddle- 
sticks, my dear fellow! . . . . Thou wilt come to 
me by and by—for I have insulted thee.” 

At last the Prince, having cleverly got rid of 
the crowd of his adorers, strode past me, darted 
a glance, not exactly at the window, nor yet 
exactly at my hair, was on the point of turning 
away, and suddenly came to a halt, as though 
he had just remembered something. 

“ Akh, yes!”’—he said, addressing me with a 
smile;—‘“‘ by the way, I have a little matter of 
business with you.” 

Two landed proprietors, the most persistent 
of all, who were obstinately following up the 
Prince, probably thought that the “ little matter 
of business” was connected with the service, and 
respectfully retreated. The Prince put his arm 
in mine, and led me to one side. My heart 
thumped in my breast. 

“You,’—he began, drawling out the word 
you, and staring at my chin with a contemptu- 
ous expression which, strange to say, was infi- 
nitely becoming to his fresh, handsome face,— 
“you said something insolent to me, I believe.” 

“T said what I thought,”—I retorted, raising 
my voice. 

60 


A SUPERFLUOUS MAN 


“Ssssh .... speak more quietly,’—he re- 
marked:—“ well-bred men do not shout. Per- 
haps you would like to fight with me?” 

“That is your affair,’—I replied, drawing 
myself up. 

“IT shall be compelled to call you out,’ —he 
said carelessly,—“ if you do not withdraw your 
Expressionsy(iy,5)).”’ 

“I have no intention of withdrawing any- 
thing,’ —I retorted proudly. 

“ Really? ”’—he remarked, not without a sneer- 
ing smile.—“ In that case,” —he went on, after a 
brief pause,—“‘ I shall have the honour to send 
my second to you to-morrow.” 

“Very well, sir,’—I said in the most indiffer- 
ent tone I could muster. 

The Prince bowed slightly. 

“T cannot forbid you to think me a frivolous 
man, ’—he added, arrogantly narrowing his eyes; 
—‘“but it is impossible that the Princes N*** 
should be upstarts. Farewell for the present, 
Mas.) 03 Mr: \Shtukatirin.” 

He quickly turned his back on me, and again 
approached his host, who had already begun to 
grow agitated. 

Pak Shitkaturin,’’!......., 4) \se0Mby}aamenas 
Tchulkatirin. . . . I could find no reply to make 
to this last insult of his, and only stared after him 
in a violent rage.—“* Farewell until to-morrow,” 
I whispered, setting my teeth, and immediately 


61 


THE DIARY OF 


hunted up an officer of my acquaintance, Captain 
Koloberdyaeff of the uhlans, a desperate ca- 
rouser and a splendid fellow, narrated to him in 
a few words my quarrel with the Prince, and 
asked him to be my second. He, of course, im- 
mediately consented, and I wended my way 
homeward. 

I could not get to sleep all night—from agi- 
tation, not from pusillanimity. I am no cow- 
ard. I even thought very little indeed about the 
impending possibility of losing my life, that high- 
est good on earth, according to the Germans. 
I thought of Liza only, of my dead hopes, of 
what I ought to do. “‘ Ought I to try to kill the 
Prince?” I asked myself, and, of course, wanted 
to kill him,—not out of vengeance, but out of a 
desire for Liza’s good. “ But she will not sur- 
vive that blow,” I went on. “ No, it will be better 
to let him kill me!” 

I confess that it was also pleasant to me to 
think that I, an obscure man from the country, 
had forced so important a personage to fight a 
duel with me. 

Dawn found me engrossed in these cogita- 
tions; and later in the morning, Koloberdyaeff 
presented himself. 

“ Well,’—he asked me, noisily entering my 
bedroom,—‘“‘ and where ’s the Prince’s second? ”’ 

“Why, good gracious! ”—I replied with vexa- 
tion,—“ it’s only seven o’clock in the morn- 

62 


A SUPERFLUOUS MAN 


ing now; I presume the Prince is still fast 
asleep.” 

“In that case,’—returned the irrepressible 
cavalry-captain,—“ order them to give me some 
tea. I have a headache from last night’s doings. 
.... I have n’t even been undressed. How- 
ever,’—he added with a yawn,—“I rarely do 
undress anyway.’ 

Tea was served to him. He drank six glasses 
with rum, smoked four pipes, told me that on the 
preceding day he had bought for a song a horse 
which the coachmen had given up as a bad job, 
and intended to break it in by tying up one of 
its forelegs,—and fell asleep, without undress- 
ing, on the couch, with his pipe still in his mouth. 
I rose, and put my papers in order. One note 
of invitation from Liza, the only note I had re- 
ceived from her, I was on the point of putting 
in my breast, but changed my mind, and tossed 
it into a box. Koloberdyaeff was snoring faintly, 
with his head hanging dovn from the leather 
cushions. . . . I remember that I surveyed for a 
long time his dishevelled, dashing, care-free and 
kindly face. At ten o’clock my servant an- 
nounced the arrival of Bizmyoénkoff. The Prince 
had selected him for his second. 

Together we roused the soundly-sleeping cap- 
tain. He rose, stared at us with eyes owlishly 
stupid from sleep, and in a hoarse voice asked 
for vodka;—he recovered himself, and after hav- 

63 


THE DIARY (OF 


ing exchanged salutes with Bizmyénkoff, went 
out with him into the next room for consultation. 
The conference of the seconds did not last long. 
A quarter of an hour later they both came to me 
in my bedroom; Koloberdyaeff announced to me 
that “ we shall fight to-day, at three o’clock, with 
pistols.”” I silently bowed my head, in token of 
assent. Bizmyonkoff immediately took leave of 
us, and drove away. He was somewhat pale and 
inwardly agitated, like a man who is not accus- 
tomed to that sort of performance, but was very 
polite and cold. I seemed, somehow. to feel 
ashamed in his presence, and I did not dare to 
look him in the eye. 

Koloberdyaeff began to talk about his horse 
again. This conversation was very much to my 
taste. I was afraid he might mention Liza. But 
my good captain was no scandal-monger, and, 
more than that, he despised all women, calling 
them, God knows why, “salad.” At two o’clock 
we lunched, and at three were already on the field 
of action—in that same birch-grove where I had 
once strolled with Liza, a couple of paces from 
that cliff. 

We were the first to arrive. But the Prince 
and Bizmyonkoff did not make us wait long for 
them. The Prince was, without exaggeration, 
as fresh as a rose; his brown eyes gazed out with 
extreme affability from beneath the visor of his 
military cap. He was smoking a straw cigar, 

64 


A SUPERFLUOUS MAN 


and on catching sight of Koloberdydeff he shook 
hands with him in a cordial manner. He even 
bowed very charmingly to me. I, on the con- 
trary, felt conscious that I was pale, and my 
hands, to my intense vexation, were trembling 
shghtly; . . . my throat was dry. . . Never, up 
to that time, had I fought a duel. ‘“O God!” 
I thought; “if only that sneering gentleman 
does not take my agitation for timidity!” I in- 
wardly consigned my nerves to all the fiends; but 
on glancing, at last, straight at the Prince’s 
face, and catching on his lips an almost imper- 
ceptible smile, I suddenly became inflated with 
wrath, and immediately recovered my equanim- 
ity. 

In the meantime, our seconds had arranged 
the barrier, had paced off the distance, and 
loaded the pistols. Koloberdydeff did most of 
the active part; Bizmyénkoff chiefly watched 
him. It was a magnificent day—quite equal to 
the day of the never-to-be-forgotten stroll. The 
dense azure of the sky again peeped through the 
gilded green of the leaves. Their rustling 
seemed to excite me. The Prince continued to 
smoke his cigar, as he leaned his shoulder against 
the trunk of a linden... . 

“ Be so good as to take your places, gentlemen; 
all is ready,” —said Koloberdydeff at last, hand- 
ing us the pistols. 

The Prince retreated a few paces, halted, and 


65 


THE DIARY OF 


turning his head back over his shoulder, asked 
me: “ And do you still refuse to withdraw your 
words?” ... I tried to answer him; but my voice 
failed me, and I contented myself with a dis- 
dainful motion of the hand. The Prince laughed 
again, and took his place. We began to approach 
each other. I raised my pistol, and was on the 
point of taking aim at the breast of my enemy,— 
at that moment he really was my enemy,—but 
suddenly elevated the barrel, as though some one 
had jogged my elbow, and fired. The Prince 
staggered, raised his left hand to his left temple 
—a thin stream of blood trickled down his cheek 
from beneath his white wash-leather glove. Biz- 
myonkoff flew to him. 

“ It is nothing,’—he said, taking off his cap, 
which had been perforated;—“ if it did not enter 
my head, that means it is only a scratch.” 

He calmly pulled a batiste handkerchief from 
his pocket, and laid it on his curls, which were wet 
with blood. I looked at him as though petrified, 
and did not stir from the spot. 

“Please go to the barrier! ’”’—remarked Kolo- 
berdyaeff to me with severity. 

I obeyed. 

“ Shall the duel go on?’’—he added, address- 
ing Bizmyonkoff. 

Bizmyonkoff made him no reply; but the 
Prince, without removing the handkerchief from 
the wound, nor even giving himself the satis- 

66 


A SUPERFLUOUS MAN 


faction of teasing me at the barrier, replied with 
a smile: “ The duel is ended,” and fired into the 
air. I nearly wept with vexation and rage. That 
man, by his magnanimity, had definitively tram- 
pled me in the mud, had cut my throat. I wanted 
to protest, I wanted to demand that he should 
fire at me; but he stepped up to me, and offering 
me his hand, “ Everything is forgotten between 
us, is it not? ’—he said, in a cordial voice. 

I cast a glance at his pale face, at that blood- 
stained handkerchief, and utterly losing my head, 
blushing with shame, and annihilated, I pressed 
his hand. . . 

““ Gentlemen! ”—he added, addressing the sec- 
onds:—‘“I hope that all this will remain a 
seeret? 

“Of course!’’—exclaimed Koloberdyaeff,— 
“but, Prince, allow me... .” 

And he himself bound up his head. 

The Prince, as he departed, bowed to me once 
more; but Bizmyonkoff did not even bestow a 
glance on me. Slain,—morally slain,—I returned 
home with Koloberdyaeff. 

“ But what ails you? ’—the captain asked me. 
“Calm yourself; the wound is not dangerous. 
He can dance to-morrow, if he likes. Or are 
you sorry that you did not kill him? In that case, 
you ’re wrong; he ’s a splendid fellow.” 

“Why did he spare me?!”—I muttered at 
last. 


67 


THE DIARY OF 


“Oho! so that ’s it! ”—calmly retorted the cap- 
tain. . . ‘““Okh, these romancers will be the 
death of me!” 

I positively refuse to describe my tortures in 
the course of the evening which followed this un- 
lucky duel. My pride suffered inexpressibly. 
It was not my conscience which tormented me; 
the consciousness of my stupidity annihilated me. 
“T myself have dealt myself the last, the final 
blow!” I kept repeating as I paced my room 
with long strides. . . . “ The Prince wounded by 
me and forgiving me... . yes, Liza is his now. 
Nothing can save her now, nor hold her back 
on the brink of perdition.” I was very well aware 
that our duel could not remain a secret, in spite 
of the Prince’s words; in any case, it could not 
remain a secret to Liza. ‘“‘ The Prince is not so 
stupid ”—I whispered in a frenzy—" as not to 
take advantage of it.” . . . And, nevertheless, I 
was mistaken: the whole town heard about the 
duel and its actual cause,—on the very next day, 
of course; but it was not the Prince who had 
babbled—on the contrary; when he had presented 
himself to Liza with a bandaged head and an 
excuse which had been prepared in advance, she 
already knew everything. . . Whether Bizmyon- 
koff had betrayed me, or whether the news had 
reached her by other roads, I cannot say. And, 
after all, is it possible to conceal anything in a 
small town? You can imagine how Liza took it, 

§8 


A SUPERFLUOUS MAN 


how the whole Ozhégin family took it! As for 
me, I suddenly became the object of universal 
indignation, of loathing, a monster, a crazily 
jealous man, and a cannibal. My few acquain- 
tances renounced me, as they would have re- 
nounced a leper. ‘The town authorities appealed 
to the Prince with a proposition to chastise me 
in a stern and exemplary manner; only the per- 
sistent and importunate entreaties of the Prince 
himself warded off the calamity which menaced 
my head. This man was fated to annihilate me 
in every way. By his magnanimity he had shut 
me up as though with my coffin-lid. It is need- 
less to say that the Ozhogins’ house was imme- 
diately closed to me. Kirila Matvyéevitch even 
returned to me a plain pencil, which I had left 
at his residence. In reality, he was precisely 
the last man who should have been incensed with 
me. My “crazy” jealousy, as they called it in 
the town, had defined, elucidated, so to speak, the 
relations between Liza and the Prince. The old 
Ozhogins themselves and the other residents be- 
gan to look upon him almost in the light of a be- 
trothed husband. In reality, that could not have 
been quite agreeable to him; but he liked Liza 
very much; and moreover, at that time he had not, 
as yet, attained his object. . . . With all the tact 
of a clever man of the world, he accommodated 
himself to his new position, immediately entered 
into the spirit of his new part, as the saying is... . 


69 


THE DIARY OF 


But I! . . . I then gave up in despair, so far 
as I myself was concerned, and so far as my 
future was concerned. When sufferings reach 
such a pitch that they make our whole inward 
being crack and creak like an overloaded cart, 
they ought to cease being ridiculous. . . . But 
no! laughter not only accompanies tears to the 
end, to exhaustion, to the point where it is im- 
possible to shed any more of them,—not at all! 
it still rings and resounds at a point where the 
tongue grows dumb and lamentation itself dies 
away. . . . And then, in the first place, as I have 
no intention of appearing absurd even to myself, 
and in the second place, as I am frightfully tired, 
I shall defer the continuation and, God willing, 
the conclusion of my story until to-morrow. .. . 


March 29. A light frost; last night 
there was a thaw. 
YeEsTERDAY I was unable to go on with my diary; 
like Poprishshtchin, I lay most of the time in 
bed, and chatted with Teréntievna. There ’s a 
woman for you! Sixty years ago she lost her 
first betrothed from the plague, she has outlived 
all her children, she herself is unpardonably old, 
she drinks tea to her heart’s content, she is well- 
fed, warmly clad; but what do you think she 
talked to me about yesterday? I had ordered 
that the cape of an old livery-coat should be 
given to another utterly denuded old woman for 


70 


A SUPERFLUOUS MAN 


a waistcoat (she wears a breast-piece in the shape 
of a waistcoat). . . . The cape was pretty thor- 
oughly eaten by moths, so why should not she 
have it? “ Well, it strikes me that I ’m your 
nurse. . . . O-okh, my dear little father, ’t is a sin 
for you to do that. . .. And have n’t I been 
tending you?” .... and so forth. The mer- 
ciless old woman fairly wore me out with 
her reproaches. . . . But let us return to the 
story. 

So, then, I suffered like a dog which has had 
the hind part of its body run over by a wheel. 
Only then,—only after my expulsion from the 
Ozhogins’ house,—did I become definitively 
aware how much pleasure a man may derive from 
the contemplation of his own unhappiness. Oh, 
men! ye are, in reality, a pitiful race! . . . Well, 
but that is in the nature of a philosophical remark. 
. . - I passed my days in utter solitude, and only 
in the most roundabout and even base ways was I 
able to find out what was going on in the Ozho- 
gin family, what the Prince was doing. My 
servant struck up an acquaintance with the great- 
aunt of the wife of his coachman. This acquain- 
tance afforded me some alleviation, and my 
servant speedily was able, from my hints and 
gifts, to divine what it behooved him to talk about 
with his master, when he was pulling off the lat- 
ter’s boots at night. Sometimes I chanced to meet 
in the street some member of the Ozhdgin family, 


yi! 


THE DIARY OF 


Bizmyonkoff, or the Prince. ... With the 
Prince and Bizmyoénkoff I exchanged bows, but 
I did not enter into conversation. I saw Liza 
thrice in all: once with her mamma, in a milliner’s 
shop, once in an open calash with her father, 
her mother, and the Prince; once in church. 
Of course, I did not venture to approach her, and 
only gazed at her from afar. In the shop she was 
anxious but cheerful. ... She was ordering 
something for herself, and busily trying on rib- 
bons. Her mother was gazing at her, with hands 
clasped on her stomach, her nose elevated, and 
indulging in that stupid and affectionate smile 
which is permissible only to fond mothers. Liza 
was in the calash with the Prince. . . . I shall 
never forget that meeting! The old Ozhégins 
were sitting on the back seat of the calash, the 
Prince and Liza in front. She was paler than 
usual; two pink streaks were barely discernible 
on her cheeks. She was half-turned toward the 
Prince; supporting herself on her outstretched 
right hand (she was holding her parasol in her 
left), and wearily bending her head, she was 
gazing straight into his face with her expressive 
eyes. At that moment she was surrendering her- 
self utterly to him, trusting him irrevocably. I 
did not have a chance to get a good look at 
his face,—the calash dashed past too swiftly,— 
but it seemed to me that he also was deeply 
moved. 


72 





A SUPERFLUOUS MAN 


The third time I saw her was in church. Not 
more than ten days had elapsed since the day 
when I had encountered her in the calash with 
the Prince, not more than three weeks since my 
duel. The business on account of which the 
Prince had come to O*** had long been finished ; 
but he still deferred his departure; he reported 
in Petersburg that he was ill. In the city, people 
were expecting every day a formal proposal on 
his part to Kirila Matvyéevitch. I myself was 
only waiting for this last blow, in order to retire 
forever. The town of O*** had grown loath- 
some to me. I could not sit still at home, and from 
morning till night I dragged myself about the 
suburbs. One grey, wet day, as I was return- 
ing from a stroll which had been cut short by the 
rain, I stepped into the church. The evening 
service was only just beginning, there were very 
few people present; I looked about me, and sud- 
denly, near a window, I descried a familiar pro- 
file. At first I did not recognise it; that pale 
face, that extinct glance, those sunken cheeks— 
could it be the same Liza whom I had seen two 
weeks before? Enveloped in a cloak, with no 
hat on her head, illuminated from one side by a 
cold ray of light, which fell through the broad 
window of white glass, she was staring immov- 
ably at the ikonostdsis, and, apparently, making 
a violent effort to pray, striving to escape from 
some sort of dejected rigidity. A fat, red- 

73 


THE DIARY OF 


cheeked page with yellow cartridge-cases on his 
breast’ was standing behind her, with his hands 
clasped behind his back, and staring with sleepy 
surprise at his mistress. I shuddered all over; 
I started to go to her, but stopped short. A 
torturing forboding gripped my breast. Liza 
never stirred until the very end of vespers. All 
the congregation departed, a chanter began to 
sweep out the church, and still she did not stir 
from her place. The page approached her, and 
touched her gown; she glanced round, passed her 
hand over her face, and went away. I escorted 
her, at a distance, to her house, then returned 
home. 

“ She is ruined!” I exclaimed, as I entered my 
room. 

Being a man, I do not know to this day what 
was the nature of my sensations then. I remem- 
ber that, folding my arms, I flung myself on the 
divan, and riveted my eyes on the floor; but I 
did not know why, only, in the midst of my grief, 
I seemed to be pleased at something... . I 
would not have admitted that on any account, 
if I were not writing for myself. ... I really 
had been tortured by painful, terrible forebod- 
ings .... and, who knows, perhaps I should 
have been disconcerted if they had not been ful- 
filled. ‘‘ Such is the human heart!” some mid- 
dle-aged Russian teacher would exclaim at this 


1 The page is called a kaz4k, and dressed accordingly. —TRransLaTor- 


74 


A SUPERFLUOUS MAN 


point, in an expressive voice, raising on high his 
thick forefinger adorned with a carnelian ring. 
But what care we for the opinion of a Russian 
teacher with an expressive voice, and a carnelian 
ring on his finger? 

Be that as it may, my forebodings had turned 
out to be correct. The news suddenly spread 
through the town that the Prince had taken his 
departure, in consequence, nominally, of an order 
from Petersburg; that he had gone away without 
having made any proposal of marriage either to 
Kirila Matvyéevitch or to his spouse, and that 
Liza would continue to mourn his perfidy to the 
end of her days. The Prince’s departure had 
been entirely unexpected, because, as late as the 
evening before, his coachman, according to the as- 
sertions of my servant, had not in the least sus- 
pected his master’s intention. This news threw 
me into a fever. I immediately dressed myself, 
was on the point of running to the Ozhdgins’: 
but after thinking the matter over, I concluded 
that it would be decorous to wait until the follow- 
ing day. However, I lost nothing by remaining 
at home. ‘That evening there ran in to see me 
a certain Pandopipopulo, a Greek on his travels, 
who had accidentally got stranded in O***, a 
gossip of the first magnitude, who, more than 
any one else, had seethed with indignation against 
me for my duel with the Prince. He did not 
even give my servant time to announce him, but 


75 


THE DIARY OF 


fairly forced his way into my room, shook me 
vigorously by the hand, made a thousand excuses 
for his conduct, called me a model of magnanim- 
ity and fearlessness, depicted the Prince in the 
blackest colours, did not spare the old Ozhdgins, 
whom Fate had, in his opinion, justly punished; 
he gave a hit at Liza also in passing, and ran off, 
after kissing me on the shoulder. Among other 
things, I learned from him that the Prince, en 
vrai grand seigneur, on the eve of his departure, 
had replied coldly to a delicate hint from Karila 
Matvyéevitch, that he had not intended to deceive 
any one and was not thinking of marrying; had 
risen, and made his bow, and that was the last 
they had seen of him... . 

On the following day, I betook myself to the 
Ozhdégins’. The blear-eyed footman, at my ap- 
pearance, sprang from the bench in the ante- 
room with lghtning-like swiftness; I ordered 
him to announce me. The lackey hastened off, 
and immediately returned: “ Please enter,” said 
he; “‘ I am ordered to invite you in.” I entered 
Kirfla Matvyéevitch’s study. . . . Until to-mor- 
row. 


March 30. A frost. 


So, then, I entered Kirila Matvyéevitch’s study. 

I would give a good deal to any one who could 

have shown me my own face at the moment when 

that worthy official, hastily wrapping his Bu- 
76 


A SUPERFLUOUS MAN 


khara dressing-gown round him, stepped forward 
to meet me with outstretched hands. I must 
have fairly radiated an atmosphere of modest 
triumph, patronising sympathy, and _ limitless 
magnanimity. ... I felt that I was something 
in the nature of Scipio Africanus. Ozhdédgin was 
visibly embarrassed and depressed, avoided my 
eye, and shifted from foot to foot where he stood. 
I also noticed that he talked in an unnaturally- 
loud manner, and altogether expressed himself 
very indefinitely ;—indefinitely, but with fervour, 
did he beg my pardon, indefinitely alluded to the 
departed visitor, added a few general and in- 
definite remarks about the deceitfulness and in- 
stability of earthly blessings, and suddenly, be- 
coming conscious of a tear in his eye, he hastened 
to take a pinch of snuff, probably with the ob- 
ject of deluding me as to the cause which was 
making him weep. . . . He used green Russian 
snuff, and every one knows that that plant 
makes even old men shed tears, athwart which 
the human eye peers forth dimly and senselessly 
for the space of several minutes. 

As a matter of course I treated the old man 
very cautiously, inquired after the health of his 
wife and daughter, and at once turned the con- 
versation artfully on the interesting question of 
rotation of crops. I was dressed as usual; but 
the feeling of soft decorum and gentle conde- 
scension which filled my breast, afforded me a 


igi 


THE DIARY OF 


festive and fresh sensation, as though I were 
wearing a white waistcoat and a white neckcloth. 
One thing disturbed me: the thought of meeting 
Liza again. . . . At last Ozhdogin himself pro- 
posed to conduct me to his wife. That good, but 
stupid woman, on beholding me, at first became 
frightfully embarrassed; but her brain was in- 
capable of preserving one and the same impres- 
sion for long together, and therefore she speedily 
recovered her equanimity. At last I saw Liza. 
siaievehe ientened! the moonass)..’. 

I had expected that I should find in her an 
abashed, penitent sinner, and had already in ad- 
vance imparted to my face the most cordial and 
encouraging expression. . . . Why should I lie? 
I really loved her and thirsted for the happiness 
of forgiving her, of putting out my hand to her; 
but, to my unspeakable amazement, in reply to 
my significant bow, she laughed coldly, remarked 
carelessly: “ Ah? so it ’s you?” and immediately 
turned away from me. Her laugh appeared to 
me forced, it is true, and, in any case, was ill- 
suited to her dreadfully emaciated face... . 
But, nevertheless, I had not expected such a re- 
ception. . . . I stared at her in astonishment. 
. . . What a change had taken place in her! Be- 
tween the former child and this woman there was 
nothing in common. She seemed to have grown 
taller, to have drawn herself up straighter; all her 
features, especially her lips, seemed to have ac- 


78 


A SUPERFLUOUS MAN 


quired a more defined outline... . her gaze 
had become more profound, more firm, and dark. 
I sat with the Ozhogins until dinner; she rose, 
left the room and returned to it, calmly replied 
to questions, and deliberately took no heed of me. 
I could see that she wished to make me feel that I 
was not worthy even of her anger, although I 
had come near killing her lover. At last I lost 
patience: a malicious hint broke from my lips. 
. . . She shuddered, darted a swift glance at 
me, rose, and, walking to the window, said in a 
voice which trembled slightly: “ You can say 
anything you like, but you must know that I love 
that man and shall always love him, and do not 
consider him to blame toward me in the slightest 
degree, on the contrary . .. .” Her voice broke 
with a tinkle, she paused . . . . tried to control 
herself, but could not, and burst into tears and 
left the room. ... The elder Ozhogins grew 
confused. . . . I shook hands with both of them, 
sighed, cast a glance upward, and went away. 

I am too weak, there is too little time left to me, 
I am not in a condition to describe with my 
former minuteness this new series of torturing 
meditations, firm intentions, and other fruits of 
the so-called inward conflict, which started up in 
me after the renewal of my acquaintance with 
the Ozhégins. I did not doubt that Liza still 
loved and would long love the Prince . . . . but. 
being a man tamed now by circumstances and 


79 


THE DIARY OF 


who had resigned himself to his fate, I did 
not even dream of her love: I merely desired her 
friendship, I wanted to win her confidence, her 
respect, which, according to the assertions of ex- 
perienced persons, is regarded as the most trust- 
worthy foundation for happiness in marriage. 
. .. . Unhappily, I had lost sight of one rather 
important circumstance—namely, that Liza had 
hated me ever since the day of the duel. I learned 
this too late. 

I began to frequent the Ozhogins’ house as of 
yore. Kirila Matvyéevitch was more cordial to 
me and petted me more than ever. I even have 
cause to think that at the time he would have 
gladly given me his daughter, although I was 
not an enviable match: public opinion condemned 
him and Liza, and, on the other hand, extolled 
me to the skies. Liza’s treatment of me did not 
change: she maintained silence most of the time, 
obeyed when she was bidden to eat, displayed 
no outward signs of grief, but, nevertheless, she 
wasted away like a candle. I must do justice to 
Kirila Matvyéevitch: he spared her in every possi- 
ble way; old Madame Ozhogin merely bristled up 
as she looked at her poor child. There was only 
one man whom Liza did not avoid, although she 
did not talk much to him, namely, Bizmyénkoff. 
The old Ozhogins treated him sternly, even 
roughly; they could not pardon him for having 
acted as second; but he continued to come to their 

80 


A SUPERFLUOUS MAN 


house, as though he did not notice their disfavour. 
With me he was very cold, and,—strange to say! 
—I felt afraid of him, as it were. This state of 
things lasted for about a fortnight. At last, 
after a sleepless night, I made up my mind to 
have an explanation with Liza, to lay bare my 
heart before her; to tell her that, notwithstanding 
the past, notwithstanding all sorts of rumours 
and gossip, I should regard myself as too happy 
if she would favour me with her hand, would 
restore to me her trust. I really, without jesting, 
imagined that I was exhibiting, as the compen- 
diums of literature put it, an unprecedented ex- 
ample of magnanimity, and that she would give 
her consent out of sheer amazement. In any 
case, I wanted to clear up the situation with her, 
and escape, definitively, from my state of un- 
certainty. 

Behind the Ozhdégins’ house lay a fairly spa- 
cious garden, terminating in a linden coppice, 
neglected and overgrown. In the middle of this 
coppice rose an old arbour in the Chinese style; 
a board fence separated the garden from a blind- 
alley. Liza sometimes strolled for hours at a 
time alone in this garden. Kirila Matvyéevitch 
knew this and had given orders that she was not 
to be disturbed, and kept a watch over her: 
“Let her grief wear itself out,” he said. When 
she was not to be found in the house, it was only 
necessary to ring a small bell on the porch at 


81 


THE DIARY OF 


dinner-time, and she immediately presented her- 
self, with the same obdurate taciturnity on her 
lips and in her gaze, and some sort of crumpled 
leaf in her hand. So, one day, observing that 
she was not in the house, I pretended that I was 
making ready to depart, took leave of Kirila 
Matvyéevitch, put on my hat, and emerged from 
the anteroom into the courtyard, and from the 
courtyard into the street, but instantly, with ex- 
traordinary swiftness, slipped back through the 
gate and made my way past the kitchen into 
the garden. Luckily, no one espied me. With- 
out pausing long to think, I entered the grove 
with hasty steps. Before me, on the path, stood 
Liza. My heart began to beat violently in my 
breast. I stopped short, heaved a deep sigh, and 
was on the point of approaching her, when all 
of a sudden, without turning round, she raised her 
hand and began to listen. . . . From behind the 
trees, in the direction of the blind-alley, two 
knocks rang out clearly, as though some one were 
tapping on the fence. Liza clapped her hands, 
a faint squeaking of the wicket-gate became audi- 
ble, and Bizmyonkoff emerged from the coppice. 
I promptly hid myself behind a tree. Liza turned 
silently toward him. . . . Silently he drew her 
arm through his, and both walked softly along the 
path. I stared after them in astonishment. They 
halted, looked about them, disappeared behind the 
bushes, appeared again, and finally entered the ar- 
82 


A SUPERFLUOUS MAN 


bour. This arbour was circular in shape, a tiny lit- 
tle building, with one door and one small window; 
in the centre was to be seen an old table with a sin- 
gle leg, overgrown with fine green moss; two 
faded little plank divans stood at the sides, at 
some distance from the damp and dark-hued 
walls. Here, on unusually hot days, and that 
once a year, and in former times, they had been 
in the habit of drinking tea. The door would not 
shut at all; the frame had long ago fallen out of 
the window and, catching by one corner, dangled 
mournfully, like the wounded wing of a bird. I 
stole up to the arbour and cautiously glanced 
through a crack of the window. Liza was sitting 
on one of the little divans, with drooping head; 
her right hand lay on her lap; Bizmyonkoff was 
holding the left in both his hands. He was gaz- 
ing at her with sympathy. 

“ How do you feel to-day? ”’—he asked her, in 
a low voice. 

“ Just the same! ’’—she replied ;—“ neither bet- 
ter nor worse.—Emptiness, frightful empti- 
ness! ’’—she added, dejectedly raising her eyes. 

Bizmyonkoff made no reply. 

“What think you,” she went on;—“ will he 
write to me again?” 

“T think not, Lizavéta Kirillovna! ” 

She remained silent for a while. 

“ And, in fact, what is there for him to write 
about? He told me everything in his first letter. 


83 


< 


THE DIARY OF 


I could not be his wife; but I was happy . . . not 
for long. . . . I was happy. .. .” 

Bizmyonkoff lowered his eyes. 

* Akh,’—she went on with animation;—“ if 
you only knew how loathsome that Tchulkaturin 
is to me! . . . It always seems to me that I can 
see” NTA his blood . . . on that man’s hands.” 
(I writhed behind my crack.) ‘“‘ However,’ —she 
added thoughtfully;—‘“‘ who knows,—perhaps 
had it not been for that duel . . . . Akh, when I 
beheld him wounded, I immediately felt that I 
was all his.” 

“'Tchulkaturin loves you,’—remarked Biz- 
myonkoff. 

“What do I care for that? Do I need any one’s 
love? .. .” She paused, and added slowly: . . . 
“except yours. Yes, my friend, your love is in- 
dispensable to me: without you I should have per- 
ished. You have helped me to endure terrible mo- 
ments. 13.5. 

She ceased. . . . Bizmyonkoff began to stroke 
her hand with paternal tenderness. “ There ’s no 
help for it, there ’s no help for it, Lizavéta Kiril- 
lovna,” —he repeated, several times in succession. 

“Yes, and now,’ —she said dully,—“ I think I 
should die if it were not for you. You alone sus- 
tain me; moreover, you remind me... . For you 
know everything. Do you remember how hand- 
some he was that day? . . . . But forgive me: it 
must be painful for you... .” 

84 





A SUPERFLUOUS MAN 


“Speak, speak! What do you mean? God 
bless you! ”— Bizmyoénkoff interrupted her. She 
squeezed his hand. 

“ You are very kind, Bizmyonkoff,”—she went 
on:—“‘ you are as kind as an angel. What am I 
to do? I feel that I shall love him until I die. I 
have forgiven him, I am grateful to him. May 
God grant him happiness! May God give him a 
wife after his own heart! ’’— And her eyes filled 
with tears.—“ If only he does not forget me, if 
only he will now and then recall his Liza to mind. 
Let us go out,’ —she added, after a brief pause. 

Bizmyonkoff raised her hand to his lips. 

“ T know,”—she began with warmth,—‘ every 
one is blaming me, every one is casting stones at 
me now. Let them! All the same, I would not 
exchange my unhappiness for their happiness 

. no! no! . . . He did not love me long, but 
he did love me! He never deceived me: he did not 
tell me that I was to be his wife; I myself never 
thought of such a thing. Only poor papa hoped 
for that. And now I am still not utterly un- 
happy: there remains to me the memory, and how- 


ever terrible the consequences may be . . . . Iam 
stifling here . . . . it was here that I saw him for 
the last time. . . . Let us go out into the air.” 


They rose. I barely managed to leap aside and 
hide behind a thick linden. They came out of the 
arbour and, so far as I was able to judge from the 
sound of their footsteps, went off into the grove. 


85 


THE DIARY OF 


I do not know how long I had been standing 
there, without stirring from the spot, absorbed in 
a sort of irrational surprise, when suddenly the 
sound of footsteps became audible again. I 
started and peered cautiously from my ambush. 
Bizmyonkoff and Liza were returning by the 
same path. Both were greatly agitated, especially 
Bizmyonkoff. He had been weeping, appar- 
ently. Liza halted, gazed at him, and uttered the 
following words distinctly: “ I consent, Bizmyén- 
koff. I would not have consented, had you merely 
wished to save me, to extricate me from a fright- 
ful position; but you love me, you know all—and 
you love me; I shall never find a more trustwor- 
thy, faithful friend. I will be your wife.” 

Bizmyonkoff kissed her hand; she smiled sadly 
at him, and went to the house. Bizmyonkoff 
dashed into the thicket, and I went my way. As 
Bizmyonkoff had probably said to Liza precisely 
what I had intended to say to her, and as she had 
given him precisely the answer which I had hoped 
to hear from her, there was no necessity for my 
troubling myself further. A fortnight later she 
married him. The old Ozhdgins were glad to get 
any bridegroom. 

Well, tell me now, am not I a superfluous man? 
Did not I play in the whole of that affair the part 
of a superfluous man? The role of the Prince 

. as to that, there is nothing to be said; the 
role of Bizmyonkoff also is comprehensible ... . 
86 


A SUPERFLUOUS MAN 


But I? Why was I mixed up in it? . . . whata 
stupid, fifth wheel to the cart I was! . . . Akh, 
’tis bitter, bitter! . . . So now, as the stevedores 
on the Volga say: ‘“ Heave-ho! heave-ho!” *— 
one more little day, then another, and nothing will 
be either bitter or sweet to me any more. 


March 31. 

Turncs are bad. I write these lines in bed. The 
weather has changed suddenly since yesterday. 
To-day is hot—almost a summer day. Every- 
thing is thawing, crumbling, and streaming. 
There is an odour of ploughed earth in the air: 
a heavy, powerful, oppressive odour. ‘The steam 
is rising everywhere. The sun is fairly beating, 
fairly blazing down. I am ina bad way. I feel 
that I am decomposing. 

I started out to write a diary, and instead of 
that, what have I done? I have narrated one 
incident out of my own life. I have been bab- 
bling, sleeping memories have waked up and car- 
ried me away. I have written leisurely, in de- 
tail, as though I still had years before me; and 
now, lo, there is no time to continue. Death, 
death is advancing. I can already hear its men- 
geme, crescendo, |... Time 7s, ups; ..1s).. Times 
BD. . 


1 The burlaké on the Volga used to tow the barges from Astrakhan 
to Nizhni Névgorod Fair, against the current. The stevedores also 
are called burlakt, and, as they lade the barges, their chantey runs 
(more literally than I have translated it above): ‘‘ Yet another little 
time, yet again, . . .”’ and so forth. —TRANSLATOR. 


87 


THE DIARY OF 


And where ’s the harm? Does it make any dif- 
ference what I have told? In the presence of 
death all the last earthly vanities disappear. I 
feel that I am quieting down; I am becoming 
more simple, more clear. I have acquired sense, 
but too late! . .. "T is strange! I am growing 
still—’t is true, and, nevertheless, I am overcome 
with dread. Yes, I am overcome with dread. 
Half-leaning over the voiceless, yawning gulf, 
I shudder, I turn aside, with eager attention I 
gaze about in all directions. Every object is 
doubly dear to me. I cannot gaze my fill at my 
poor, cheerless room, as I bid farewell to every 
tiny fleck on my walls! Sate yourselves for the 
last time, ye eyes of mine! Life is withdrawing; 
it is flowing evenly and softly away from me, 
like the shore from the glances of the traveller 
by sea. The aged, yellow face of my nurse, 
bound up in a dark kerchief, the hissing samovar 
on the table, the pot of geranium in front of the 
window, and thou, my poor dog, Trésor, the pen 
wherewith I indite these lines, my own hand, I 
See ryou now > ....-there*'you are, there: sae 
Is it possible . . . . to-day perhaps . . . I shall 
see you no more? ’T is painful for a living being 
to part with life! Why dost thou fawn on me, 
poor dog? Why dost thou lean thy breast 
against my bed convulsively tucking under thy 
short tail, and never taking from me thy kind, 
sad eyes? Art thou sorry for me? Dost thou 


88 


A SUPERFLUOUS MAN 


already feel instinctively that thy master will 
soon be no more? Akh, if I could also pass in 
review mentally all the objects in my room! I 
know that these memories are cheerless and in- 
significant, but I have no others. Emptiness, 
frightful emptiness! as Liza said. 

Oh, my God! My God! Here I am dying. 
.. . My heart capable of love, and ready to love, 
will soon cease to beat. . . And can it be that it 
will be silenced forever, without having even once 
tasted of happiness, without having a single 
time swelled beneath the sweet burden of joy? 
Alas! ’t is impossible, impossible, I know. . . If 
at least now, before my death—and death, never- 
theless, is a sacred thing, for it elevates every 
being—if some charming, sad, friendly voice 
were to sing over me the parting song of my 
own woe, perhaps I might become reconciled to 
it. But to die is stupid, stupid. . . 

I believe I am beginning to rave. 

Farewell life, farewell my garden, and you, 
my lindens! When summer comes, see that you 
do not forget to cover yourselves with flowers 
from top to bottom . . . . and may good people 
lie in your fragrant shade, on the cool grass 
beneath the lisping murmur of your leaves, 
lightly agitated by the breeze. Farewell, fare- 
well! Farewell everything, and forever! 

Farewell, Liza! I have written these two 
words—and have almost laughed- That exclam- 


89 


THE DIARY OF 


ation seems bookish. I seem to be composing 
a sentimental novel, and ending up a despairing 
fetterii.< 
To-morrow is the first of April. Can it be 
that I shall die to-morrow? That would be ra- 
ther indecorous even. However, it befits me. . . 
How the doctor did gabble to-day. . . . 


April 1. 
°T 1s over. Life is ended. I really shall die 
to-day. It is hot out of doors . . . almost sti- 
fling ... . or is it that my chest is already re- 


fusing to breathe? My little comedy has been 
played through. The curtain is falling. 
In becoming annihilated, I shall cease to be 
superfluous. . . . 
Akh, how brilliant that sun is! Those powerful 
rays exhale eternity. . . 


Farewell, Teréntievna! ... This morning, 
as she sat by the window, she fell to weeping 
.... perhaps over me... and perhaps, be- 


cause she herself must die before long also. I 
made her promise “ not to hurt” Trésor. 

It is difficult for me to write. . . . I drop my 
pen... “Tis time! Death is already drawing 
near with increasing rumble, like a carriage by 
night on the pavement: it is here, it is hovering 
around me, like that faint breath which made 
the hair of the prophet stand upright on his 
head... 


90 


A SUPERFLUOUS MAN 
I am dying. . . Live on, ye living. 


And may the young life play 
At the entrance of the grave, 
And Nature the indifferent 
With beauty beam forever! 


Note of the Editor.—Under this last line there is the profile of a 
head with a large crest-curl and moustache, with eyes en face, and 
ray-like eyelashes; and under the head some one has written the 
following words: 


The abov manuscript has been read 
And the Contints Thereof Bin Approved 
By Pyetr Zudotyéshin 


Pyetr Zudotyéshin. 
My Dear Sir. 


But as the chirography of these lines does not in the least agree 
with the chirography in which the remainder of the note-book is 
written, the editor considers himself justified in concluding that the 
above-mentioned lines were added afterward by another person; the 
more so, as it has come to his (the editor’s) knowledge that Mr. 
Tchulkatitrin really did die on the night of April 1-2, 18. . , in his 
natal estate—Ovétchi Vody. 


91 



















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Mies 0” (nivel ne 
SEGRE oi ek, “irs 
4 vet vader al ia sie rae i } 


ei ee 
ih ‘AA pei “at bine 


spat ns iO mill «he 
yeaa. Seyi Aw me one || Oe oa 


vel Avil ate 0, eal bled ends ety Sha bo oN 
Liye rl te wey, AAW brntamieed Bip bane Meera) se 
mt Wine Auk: chtte arom ied OT eebrine Nv + nal 


Vie ayer fi Aepoeattngest tN iia 
, c } ‘ae ae 
he ray bak Oi veh re Aad 
ae TERY ap 4 he iat aene Mit, fi, M ieee 
ay TAN ites ie! visa ey anes aire a} a 
‘hen 1 ee 4 oF Pare: ony MER a 44 F Bay? ys vin 
Gach? ied Ml ii an ey SA st 


old ay ralatlqgny with olden ot eee 


ei pans ‘rata aioe a 


wird verbo ndty it ai vengers if i 
at Eee Pilg hit cag olde, bl nee tend 
Drvetir shiimet a 
“ ‘ ’ io” 
ivy ; weed LAD i, en MeL ee) oy. 0ae / On 2 
OU oa ary neh if regivs ie yew 
Sees ars (eh Moet ae Wath ieee 
re mane artisan ee’ ”/ seeng Lil Peiage ty head 
Te a DAM ete tty, omy ak 
; riAP Ww , i hi _ 
ned co Ripert TE Manlh 4s phic! yt 
COATED : sk 
Rhy Ren Paar) ere eae Selene 8 noel % 7 
ROT USy Rae: Vo ony 
EUS ee Rag Big) Piyifi) “iit iv bop 


ie Dele oF Wh a yo it a 
Oly 


“ ¢ ro 4 
via 


7 


THREE PORTRAITS 


(1840) 





pn 


e 





THREE PORTRAITS 


. HE neighbours ” constitute one of the most 
serious drawbacks to country life. I knew 
one landed proprietor of the Government of 
Vologda, who, at every convenient opportunity, 
was wont to repeat the following words: “ Thank 
God, I have no neighbours! ”—and I must ad- 
mit that I could not refrain from envying that 
lucky mortal. 

My little village is situated in one of the most 
thickly-populated governments of Russia. I am 
surrounded by a vast multitude of petty neigh- 
bours, beginning with the well-intentioned and 
respected landed proprietors, clad in capacious 
dress-coats, and more capacious waistcoats,—and 
ending with arrant roysterers, who wear hussar- 
jackets with long sleeves and the so-called 
“ fimsky ” knot on the back. In the ranks of 
these nobles, however, I have accidentally dis- 
covered one very amiable young fellow. Once 
upon a time he was in the military service, then 
he retired, and settled down for good and all 
in the country. According to his account, he 
served two years in the B*** regiment; but I 
positively cannot understand how that man 

95 


THREE PORTRAITS 


could have discharged any duties whatsoever, not 
only for the space of two years, but even for 
the space of two days. He was born “for a 
peaceful life, for rustic tranquillity,” that is to 
say, for indolent, careless vegetation, which, I 
may remark in parenthesis, is not devoid of great 
and inexhaustible charms. 

He enjoyed a very respectable property: 
without troubling himself too much about the 
management of his estate, he spent about ten thou- 
sand rubles* a year, procured for himself a capi- 
tal cook (my friend was fond of good eating) ; 
he also imported from Moscow the newest French 
books and journals. He read nothing in Rus- 
sian except the reports of his overseer, and that 
with great difficulty. From morning until dinner 
(if he did not go off hunting), he did not doff 
his dressing-gown; he sorted over some sketches 
or other pertaining to the management, or be- 
took himself to the stable, or to the threshing- 
shed, and indulged in a good laugh with the 
peasant wives, who rattled their chains, as the 
saying is, in his presence, out of ostentation. 
After dinner my friend dressed himself before 
the mirror with great care, and drove off to some 
neighbour endowed with two or three pretty 
young daughters; heedlessly and pacifically, he 


1A ruble, at the present time, is worth, on an average, about fifty- 
two cents. At the period here referred to, the silver ruble would pur- 
chase more than a ruble nowadays, while the paper ruble was worth 
very little. —TRraNsLaror. 


9€ 


THREE PORTRAITS 


dangled after one of them, played at blind-man’s 
buff with them, returned home rather late, and 
immediately sank into heroic slumber. He could 
not feel bored, because he never devoted him- 
self to absolute inaction, and he was not fas- 
tidious as to his choice of occupations, and, like 
a child, was amused with the smallest trifle. On 
the other hand, he felt no special attachment to 
life, and, it sometimes happened, that when it 
became necessary to outrun a wolf or a fox, he 
would launch his horse at full speed over such 
ravines, that to this day I cannot understand 
why he did not break his neck a hundred times. 
He belonged to the category of people who evoke 
in you the thought that they are not aware of their 
own value, that beneath their external generosity 
great and mighty passions are concealed; but he 
would have laughed in your face, if he could 
have guessed that you cherished such an opinion 
concerning him; yes, and, I am bound to admit, 
I think myself that if my friend was haunted in 
his youth by any aspiration, indistinct but power- 
ful, toward what is very prettily called “ some- 
thing higher,” that aspiration had long, long ago 
calmed down in him and pined away. 

He was rather obese, and enjoyed splendid 
health. In our age, it is impossible not to like 
people who give little thought to themselves, be- 
cause they are extremely rare... . and my 
friend almost completely forgot his own person. 


97 


THREE PORTRAITS 


However, I have already said too much about 
him, I think—and my chattering is all the more 
ill-placed, since he does not serve as the subject 
of my story. His name was Pidtr Feddorovitch 
Lutchinoff. 

One autumn day, five of us thorough-going 
sportsmen had assembled together at Pidtr Feo- 
dorovitch’s. We had spent the entire morning 
in the fields, had coursed two wolves and a mul- 
titude of hares, and had returned home in the 
ravishingly-agreeable frame of mind which in- 
vades every well-regulated man after a successful 
hunt. 

Twilight was descending. The wind was play- 
ing over the dark fields, and noisily rocking the 
naked crests of the birches and lindens which sur- 
rounded Lutchinoff’s house. We arrived, and 
alighted from our horses. . . On the porch I 
halted and glanced about me: long storm-clouds 
were crawling heavily across the grey sky; a 
dark-brown bush was writhing in the wind, and 
creaking piteously; the yellow grass bent feebly 
and sadly to the ground; flocks of blackbirds were 
flying to and fro among the mountain-ash trees, 
dotted with clusters of bright-scarlet berries; * 
in the slender and brittle branches of the birch- 
trees tomtits were hopping and whistling; the 
dogs were barking hoarsely in the village. Melan- 


1A very good preserve, with a slightly wild or bitter taste, is made 
from these berries in Russia. It is a favourite preserve for putting 
in tea, — TRANSLATOR. 


98 


THREE PORTRAITS 


choly overpowered me.... for which reason I en- 
tered the dining-room with genuine pleasure. The 
shutters were closed; on the round table, covered 
with a cloth of dazzling whiteness, in the midst 
of crystal caraffes filled with red wine, burned 
eight candles in silver candlesticks; a fire blazed 
merrily on the hearth—and an old, very comely 
butler, with a huge bald spot, dressed in Eng- 
lish fashion, stood in respectful immobility in 
front of another table, which was already adorned 
with a large soup-tureen, encircled with a light, 
fragrant steam. In the anteroom we had passed 
another respectable man, engaged in cooling 
the champagne—“ according to the strict rules 
of the art.” 

The dinner was, as is usual on such occasions, 
extremely agreeable; we laughed, recounted the 
incidents which had occurred during the hunt, 
and recalled with rapture two notable “ drives.” 
After having dined rather heartily, we disposed 
ourselves in broad arm-chairs in front of the 
fireplace; a capacious silver bowl made its ap- 
pearance on the table, and, a few moments later, 
the flitting flame of rum announced to us our 
host’s pleasant intention to “ brew a punch.” — 
Pidtr Feddorovitch was a man not lacking in 
taste; he knew, for example, that nothing has 
such deadly effect on the fancy as the even, cold, 
and pedantic light of lamps—therefore he or- 
dered that only two candles should be left in 


99 


THREE PORTRAITS 


the room. Strange half-shadows quivered on the 
walls, produced by the fitful play of the fire on 
the hearth, and the flame of the punch....a 
quiet, extremely agreeable comfort replaced in 
our hearts the somewhat obstreperous jollity 
which had reigned at dinner. 

Conversations have their fates—like books (ac- 
cording to the Latin apothegm), like everything 
in the world. Our conversation on that evening 
was peculiarly varied and vivacious. In part it 
rose to decidedly important general questions, 
then lightly and unconstrainedly returned to the 
commonplaces of everyday life. . . . After chat- 
ting a good deal, we all suddenly fell silent. At 
such times, they say, the angel of silence flits past. 

I do not know why my companions ceased 
talking, but I stopped because my eyes had sud- 
denly paused on three dusty portraits in black 
wooden frames. The colours had been rubbed 
off, and here and there the canvas was warped, 
but the faces could still be distinguished. ‘The 
middle portrait represented a woman, young in 
years, in a white gown with lace borders, and a 
tall coiffure of the eighties. On her right, against 
a perfectly black background, was visible the 
round, fat face of a good-natured Russian 
landed proprietor five-and-twenty years of age, 
with a low, broad forehead, a stubby nose, and an 
ingenuous smile. The powdered French coiffure 
was extremely out of keeping with the expres- 

100 


THREE PORTRAITS 


sion of his Slavonic countenance. The artist had 
depicted him in a kaftan of crimson hue with 
large strass buttons; in his hand he held some 
sort of unusual flower. The third portrait, 
painted by another and more experienced hand, 
represented a man of thirty, in a green uniform 
of the period of Katherine II, with red fac- 
ings, a white under-waistcoat, and a thin batiste 
neckerchief. With one hand he leaned on a 
cane with a gold head, the other he had thrust 
into his waistcoat. His thin, swarthy face 
breathed forth insolent arrogance. His long, 
slender eyebrows almost met over his pitch-black 
eyes; on his pale, barely-perceptible lips played 
an evil smile. 

“What makes you stare at those faces?” — 
Piotr Feddorovitch asked me. 

“ Because! ”’—I answered, looking at him. 

“Would you like to hear the whole story about 
those three persons? ” 

“Pray, do us the favour to tell it,’—we re- 
plied with one voice. 

Pidtr Feddorovitch rose, took a candle, raised 
it to the portraits, and in the voice of a man who 
is exhibiting wild animals, “Gentlemen!” he 
proclaimed: “ this lady is the adopted daughter of 
my own great-grandfather, Olga Ivanovna NN., 
called Lutchinoff, who died unmarried forty 
years ago. This gentleman,”—pointing to the 
portrait of the man in uniform,—“ is sergeant 

101 


THREE PORTRAITS 


of the Guards, Vasily Ivanovitch Lutchinoff, 
who departed this life, by the will of God, in 
the year one thousand seven hundred and ninety. 
And this gentleman, to whom I have not the 
honour to be related, is a certain Pavel Afana- 
sievitch Rogatchyoff, who never served any- 
where, so far as I am aware. Please to note the 
hole which is in his breast, in the exact place of 
the heart. This hole, which is, as you see, regular, 
and three-cornered, probably could not have hap- 
pened accidentally. . . . Now,’—he went on in 
his ordinary voice,—“ please to take your seats, 
arm yourselves with patience, and listen.” 


GENTLEMEN (he began) I descend from a 
fairly ancient race. I am not proud of my 
descent, because my ancestors were all frightful 
spendthrifts. This reproach, however, does not 
apply to my great-grandfather, Ivan Andréevitch 
Lutchinoff,—on the contrary, he bore the repu- 
tation of being an extraordinarily penurious and 
even miserly man—during the last years of his 
life, at all events. He passed his youth in Peters- 
burg, and was a witness of Elizavéta’s reign. 
In Petersburg he married, and had by his wife, 
who was also my great-grandmother, four chil- 
dren—three sons, Vasily, Ivan and Pavel (my 
grandfather), and one daughter, Natalya. In ad- 
dition to these, Ivan Andréevitch took into his 
family the daughter of a distant relative, a full 
102 


THREE PORTRAITS 


and nameless orphan,—Olga Ivanovna, of whom 
I have already spoken. My great-grandfather’s 
subjects were, probably, aware of his existence, 
because they were in the habit of sending to him 
(when no particular catastrophe had happened) 
a very considerable sum in quit-rents;—but they 
had never beheld his face. The village of Lutchi- 
novko, deprived of the light of its master’s 
countenance, was thriving,—when, all of a sud- 
den, one fine morning, a heavy travelling carriage 
drove into the village, and drew up in front of 
the Elder’s cottage. The peasants, startled by 
such an unprecedented event, flocked thither and 
beheld their master, mistress, and all the pair’s 
offspring, with the exception of the eldest, Vasily, 
who had remained in Petersburg. From that 
memorable day forth, and to the very day of his 
death, Ivin Andréevitch never quitted Lutchi- 
novko. He built himself a house, this very house 
in which I now have the pleasure of chatting 
with you; he also built the church, and began 
to live the life of a landed proprietor. Ivan An- 
dréevitch was a man of huge stature, gaunt, 
taciturn, and extremely slow in all his move- 
ments; he never wore a dressing-gown, and no 
one, with the exception of his valet, had ever seen 
him with unpowdered hair. Ivan Andréevitch 
habitually walked with his hands clasped behind 
his back, slowly turning his head at every step. 
Every day he walked in the long linden alley, 


1038 


THREE PORTRAITS 


which he had planted with his own hands,—and 
before his death he had the satisfaction of en- 
joying the shade of those lindens. 

Ivan Andréevitch was extremely parsimonious 
of his words; this remarkable circumstance may 
serve as a proof of his taciturnity—that in the 
space of twenty years he never said a single word 
to his spouse, Anna Pavlovna. Altogether, his 
relations to Anna Pavlovna were of a very 
strange nature.— She administered all the domes- 
tic affairs, at dinner she always sat by her hus- 
band’s side,—he would ruthlessly have chastised 
any man who presumed to utter one disrespectful 
word to her,—and yet he himself never spoke 
to her, and never touched her hand. Anna 
Pavlovna was a pale, timid, crushed woman; 
every day she prayed in church on her knees,’ 
and never smiled. It was said that formerly, 
that is to say, before their arrival in the coun- 
try, they had lived in grand style; it was said, 
also, that Anna Pavlovna had broken her mari- 
tal vows, that her husband had found out about 
her fault. . . . However that may have been, 
Ivan Andréevitch, even when he lay dying, did 

1Except during Lent, and for special prayers on Christmas Day, 
New Year’s Day and Pentecost (Trinity Sunday), hardly any kneel- 
ing is prescribed by the rubrics of the Eastern Catholic Church. 
During Easter-tide and on all Sundays it is forbidden by the rubrics, 
on the ground that joy in the resurrection should overpower the sense 
of sin and contrition. These rules are not always regarded. Buta 


person who kneels much is conspicuous, and spectators assume that the 
posture indicates great grief or contrition—as above. —TRANSLATOR. 


104 


THREE PORTRAITS 


not become reconciled to her. She never left him 
during his last illness; but he seemed not to no- 
tice her. One night, Anna Pavlovna was sitting 
in Ivan Andréevitch’s bedroom; he was tortured 
with insomnia; the shrine-lamp was burning in 
front of the holy picture; my great-grandfather’s 
servant, Yuditch, concerning whom I shall have 
a couple of words to say to you hereafter, had 
left the room. Anna Pavlovna rose, crossed the 
chamber, and flung herself, sobbing, on her 
knees before her husband’s bed, tried to say some- 
thing—and stretched out her arms. .. . Ivan 
Andréevitch looked at her—and shouted in a 
weak but firm voice: “ Man!” The servant en- 
tered. Anna Pavlovna hastily rose to her feet, 
and returned, reeling, to her place. 

Ivan Andréevitch’s children were extremely 
afraid of him. They grew up in the country, 
and were witnesses of Ivan Andréevitch’s strange 
behaviour to his wife. They all passionately loved 
Anna Pavlovna, but dared not express their love. 
She herself seemed to shun them. . . . You re- 
member my grandfather, gentlemen: to the day 
of his death, he always used to go about on tip- 
toe, and he spoke in a whisper... . that ’s 
what habit will do! My grandfather and his 
brother Ivan Ivanovitch were plain, kind, peace- 
able and melancholy people; my grand’tante 
Natalya married a coarse, stupid man, as you 
know, and until her death cherished for him a 


105 


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dumb, servile, sheep-like love; but their brother 
Vasily was not like that. 

I think I have told you that Ivan Andréevitch 
left him in Petersburg. He was twenty years 
old at the time. His father confided him to the 
care of a distant relative, a man no longer young, 
a bachelor and a frightful Voltairian. 

Vasily grew up, and entered the service. He 
was small of stature, but well built and extremely 
agile; he spoke French splendidly, and was re- 
nowned for his skill at fighting with the broad- 
sword. He was considered one of the most bril- 
liant young men of the beginning of Katherine 
II’s reign. My father often told me that he knew 
more than one old woman who could not men- 
tion Vasily Ivanovitch Lutchinoff without heart- 
felt emotion. Picture to yourself a man gifted 
with remarkable strength of will, passionate and 
calculating, patient and daring, secretive to the 
last degree and—according to the words of all 
his contemporaries—bewitchingly, enchantingly 
amiable. He had neither conscience nor good- 
nature nor honour, although no one could call 
him a positively bad man. He was selfish—but 
knew how to conceal his selfishness, and was pas- 
sionately fond of independence. When Vasily 
Ivanovitch used, smilingly, to screw up his black 
eyes, when he wanted to fascinate any one, they 
say that it was impossible to resist him—and 
even people who were convinced of the coldness 

106 





THREE PORTRAITS 


and hardness of his spirit more than once sur- 
rendered to the bewitching power of his influence. 
He zealously served himself, and made others 
toil also for his benefit, and always succeeded in 
everything, because he never lost his head, did 
not disdain flattery as a means, and understood 
how to flatter. 

Ten years after Ivan Andréevitch settled in 
the country, he came to Lutchinovko as a bril- 
liant officer of the Guards, for four months,— 
and in that space of time succeeded in turning 
the head even of the surly old man, his father. 
It is strange! Ivan Andréevitch listened with 
delight to his son’s tales of his conquests. His 
brothers were dumb in his presence, and admired 
him as a superior being. And even Anna Pav- 
lovna herself came to love him almost more 
than all her other children, who were so sincerely 
devoted to her. 

Vasily Ivanovitch came to the country, in the 
first place, in order to see his relatives; but, in 
the second place also, in order to get as much 
money as possible out of his father. He had 
lived sumptuously and kept open house in Peters- 
burg, and had contracted a multitude of debts. 
It was not easy for him to reconcile himself to 
his parent’s stinginess, and, although Ivan An- 
dréevitch gave him for his trip alone more money, 
in all probability, than he gave all his other chil- 
dren in the space of the twenty years which they 


107 


THREE PORTRAITS 


spent in the paternal house, yet Vasily stuck 
to the familiar Russian rule: “Take all you can 
get!” 

Ivan Andréevitch had a servant, Yuditch by 
name, as tall, gaunt, and taciturn a man as his 
master. They say that this Yuditch was, in part, 
the cause of the strange behaviour of Ivan An- 
dréevitch to Anna Pavlovna: they say that it 
was he who discovered the guilty liaison of my 
great-grandmother with one of my great-grand- 
father’s best friends. Probably Yuditch deeply 
repented of his ill-judged zeal, because it would 
be difficult to conceive of a more kind-hearted 
man. His memory is held sacred to this day by 
all my house-serfs. Yuditch enjoyed the un- 
bounded confidence of my great-grandfather. 
At that period, landed proprietors had money, 
but did not hand it over to loan institutions for 
safe-keeping, but kept it themselves in coffers, 
in cellars, and the like. Ivan Andréevitch kept 
all his money in a huge iron-bound coffer, which 
stood under the head of his bed. The key to 
this coffer was handed over to Yuditch. Every 
evening, when he went to bed, Ivan Andréevitch 
ordered this chest to be opened in his presence, 
tapped all the tightly-stuffed sacks in turn with 
his cane, and on Saturdays, he and Yuditch un- 
tied the sacks and carefully counted over the 
money. 

Vasily found out about all these performances 

108 


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and was fired with a desire to rummage a bit 
in the sacred coffer. In the course of five or six 
days he mollified Yuditch, that is to say, he re- 
duced the poor old fellow to such a state that—as 
the saying is—he fairly worshipped his young 
master. After having properly prepared him, 
Vasily assumed a careworn and gloomy aspect, 
for a long time refused to answer Yuditch’s in- 
quiries and, at last, told him that he had gam- 
bled away all his money, and intended to lay 
violent hands on himself if he did not obtain 
money from somewhere. Yuditch began to sob, 
flung himself on his knees before him, begged 
him to remember God, not to ruin his soul. Va- 
sily, without uttering a word, locked himself up 
in his chamber. After a while, he heard some 
one knocking cautiously on his door. He opened 
the door and beheld on the threshold Yuditch, 
pale and trembling, with a key in his hands. 
Vasily immediately understood everything. At 
first he resisted for a long time. Yuditch kept 
repeating with tears: “ Pray, master, take it!” 
.. . At last, Vasily consented. This happened 
on Monday. The idea occurred to Vasily to re- 
place the money he abstracted with bits of glass. 
He reckoned on Ivin Andréevitch’s not paying 
any special heed to the barely perceptible differ- 
ence in the sound when he tapped the sacks with 
his cane,—and by Saturday he hoped to obtain 
money and replace it in the sacks. No sooner 


109 


THREE PORTRAITS 


thought than done. His father, in fact, did not 
notice anything. But Vasily did not obtain 
money by Saturday: he had hoped, with the 
money he had taken, to clean out at the card-table 
a certain wealthy neighbour—and, on the con- 
trary, he lost everything himself. In the mean- 
time, Saturday arrived; the turn came for the 
sacks stuffed with bits of glass. Picture to your- 
selves, gentlemen, the amazement of Ivan An- 
dréevitch! 

“What ’s the meaning of this?’’—he thun- 
dered. 

Yuditch made no reply. 

“ Fast thou stolen this money?” 

F Noxsir: 

“Then has some one taken the key from thee? ” 

“T have not given the key to any one.” 

“Not to any one? If thou hast not given it 
to any one—thou art the thief. Confess!” 

“T am not a thief, Ivan Andréevitch.” 

“Whence came these bits of glass, damn it? 
So thou art deceiving me? For the last time 
I say to thee—confess!”’ 

Yuditch hung his head and clasped his hands 
behind his back. 

‘““Hey there, people!” shouted Ivan Andrée- 
vitch in a raging voice.—“ The rods!” 

“What? «You ‘mean to® awh ae 
me?” whispered Yuditch. 

“Thou shalt catch it! And how art thou any 

110 


THREE PORTRAITS 


better than the rest? Thou art a thief! Well, 
now, Yuditch! I had not expected such rascality 
from thee!” 

‘“T have grown grey in your service, Ivan An- 
dréevitch,” said Yuditch with an effort. 

‘“ And what care I about thy grey hair? May 
the devil take thee and thy service!” 

The people entered. 

“Take him, and give him a good flogging!” 

Ivan Andréevitch’s lips were pale and trem- 
bling. He ramped about the room like a wild 
beast in a confined cage. 

The men did not dare to execute his com- 
mands. 

“What are you standing there for, you vile 
serfs? have I got to lay hands on him myself, I *d 
like to know?” 

Yuditch started for the door. 

“Stop!” yelled Ivan Andréevitch.—" Yu- 
ditch, for the last time I say to thee, I entreat 
thee, Yuditch, confess.” 

“T eannot,” moaned Yuditch. 

“Then seize him, the old sycophant!.. . 
Flog him to death! On my head be it!” thun- 
dered the maddened old man. The torture be- 
a 
Suddenly the door flew open, and Vasily en- 
tered. He was almost paler than his father, his 
hands trembled, his upper lip was raised and dis- 
closed a row of white, even teeth. 

111 


THREE PORTRAITS 


“T am guilty,” he said in a dull but steady 
voice.—‘* I took the money.” 

The men stopped short. 

“Thou! what? ! thou, Vaska! without the con- 
sent of Yuditch?” 

“No! ”—said Yuditch:—“ with my consent. 
I myself gave the key to Vasily Ivanovitch. Dear 
little father, Vasily Ivanovitch! why have you 
deigned to trouble yourself ?”’ 

‘So that ’s who the thief is! ’’—shouted Ivan 
Andréevitch.—‘“‘ Thanks, Vasily, thanks! But 
I shall not spare thee, Yuditch, all the same. 
Why didst not thou confess all to me at once? 
Hey, there, you! why have you stopped? or do 
you no longer recognise my authority? And 
I ‘ll settle with you, my dear little dove!” he 
added, turning to Vasily. 

The men were on the point of setting to work 
again on Yuditch. 

“ Don’t touch him!” whispered Vasily through 
his teeth. The servants did not heed him. 
—“ Back!” he shouted, and hurled himself upon 
them. . . . They staggered back. 

“ Ah! a rebel!’’—moaned Ivan Andréevitch, 
and raising his cane, he advanced on his son. 

Vasily leaped aside, grasped the hilt of his 
sword, and bared it half-way. All began to 
tremble. Anna Pavlovna, attracted by the noise, 
frightened and pale, made her appearance in the 
doorway. 

112 


THREE PORTRAITS 


Ivan Andréevitch’s face underwent a frightful 
change. He staggered, dropped his cane, and 
fell heavily into an arm-chair, covering his face 
with both hands. No one stirred; all stood as 
though rooted to the spot, not excepting even 
Vasily. He convulsively gripped the steel hilt 
of his sword, his eyes flashed with a morose, evil 
gleam.) 

“Go away all . . . begone,’—said Ivan An- 
dréevitch in a low voice, without removing his 
hands from his face. 

The whole throng withdrew. Vasily halted on 
the threshold, then suddenly tossed his head, em- 
braced Yuditch, kissed his mother’s hand. . . 
and two hours later he was no longer in the vil- 
lage. He had departed for Petersburg. 

On the evening of that day, Yuditch was sit- 
ting on the porch of the house-serfs’ cottage. 
The servants swarmed around him, pitied him, 
and bitterly blamed the master. 

“Stop, my lads,” he said to them at last;— 
“enough of that . . . . why do you abuse him? 
I don’t believe that he, our dear little father, is 
pleased himself with his desperate deed. . . .” 

As a result of this affair, Vasily never saw his 
parents again. Ivdn Andréevitch died without 
him, probably with such grief at his heart as may 
God spare any of us from experiencing. In the 
meantime, Vasily Ivdnovitch went out in society, 
made merry after his own fashion, and squan- 

113 


THREE PORTRAITS 


dered money. How he obtained the money, I 
cannot say with certainty. He procured for him- 
self a French servant, a clever and intelligent 
young fellow, a certain Boursier. This man be- 
came passionately attached to him, and aided 
him in all his numerous performances. I have no 
intention of narrating to you in detail all the 
pranks of my great-uncle; he distinguished him- 
self by such unbounded audacity, such snaky 
tact, such incredible cold-bloodedness, such adroit 
and subtle wit, that, I must confess, I can under- 
stand the limitless power of that unprincipled 
man over the most noble souls. . . . 

Soon after his father’s death, Vasily Iva- 
novitch, notwithstanding all his tact, was chal- 
lenged to a duel by an outraged husband. He 
fought, severely wounded his antagonist, and 
was forced to quit the capital: he was ordered 
to reside permanently on his hereditary estate. 
Vasily Ivdnovitch was thirty years of age. You 
can easily imagine, gentlemen, with what feelings 
this man, who had become accustomed to the 
brilliant life of the capital, journeyed to his na- 
tive place. They say that, on the road, he fre- 
quently got out of his kibitka, flung himself face 
down on the snow, and wept. No one in Lu- 
tchinovko recognised the former jolly, amiable 
Vasily Ivanovitch. He spoke to no one, he went 
off hunting from morning until night, with visi- 
ble impatience endured the timid caresses of his 

114 


THREE PORTRAITS 


mother, and jeered pitilessly at his brothers, and 
at their wives (both of them were already mar- 
PIG)" 

So far I have said nothing to you, I believe, 
about Olga Ivanovna. She had been brought 
to Lutchinovko as an infant at the breast; she 
had almost died on the way. Olga Ivanovna had 
been reared, as the saying is, in the fear of God 
and of her parents. . . . It must be confessed 
that Ivan Andréevitch and Anna Pavlovna both 
treated her like a daughter. But there was con- 
cealed in her a feeble spark of that fire which 
blazed so brightly in the soul of Vasily Ivano- 
vitch. In the meantime, while Ivan Andrée- 
vitch’s own children did not dare to indulge in 
conjectures concerning the strange, speechless 
quarrel between their parents, Olga, from her 
earliest years had been disturbed and pained by 
the position of Anna Pavlovna. Like Vasily, she 
loved independence; all oppression revolted her. 
She had attached herself to her benefactress with 
all the powers of her soul; she hated old Lutchi- 
noff, and more than once, as she sat at table, she 
had fixed upon him such sombre glances, that even 
the man who was serving the viands felt fright- 
ened. Ivdn Andréevitch did not notice all those 
glances, because, in general, he paid no attention 
whatever to his family. 

At first, Anna Pavlovna endeavoured to ex- 
terminate this hatred in her—but several bold 


115 


THREE PORTRAITS 


questions on Olga’s part forced her to complete 
silence. Ivan Andréevitch’s children adored 
Olga, and the old woman loved her also, although 
with rather a cold affection. 

Prolonged sorrow had crushed all cheerfulness, 
all strong feeling, in this poor woman; nothing 
so clearly proves Vasily’s bewitching amiability 
as the fact that he made even his mother love him 
ardently. Effusions of tenderness on the part 
of children was not in the spirit of that age, and 
therefore it is not surprising that Olga did not 
venture to display her devotion, although she 
always kissed Anna Pavlovna’s hand with par- 
ticular respect in the evening, when she bade her 
good-night. She was barely able to read and 
write. Twenty years later, Russian girls began 
to read novels in the style of the “ Adventures of 
Marquis G***,’—“ Fanfan and Lolotte,”’—of 
“ Alexyéi; or, The Cot in the Forest ”;—they 
began to learn to play on the clavichord and to 
sing romances in the style of the following, once 
very familiar song: 


** Men in the light 
Cling to us like flies °’—and so forth. 


But in the 70s (Olga Ivanovyna was born in the 
year 1757), our rustic beauties had no concep- 
tion of all these accomplishments. It would be 
difficult for us now to picture to ourselves a 


116 


THREE PORTRAITS 


young Russian girl of good birth of that epoch. 
We can, it is true, judge from our grandmothers 
as to the degree of education of noble gentle- 
women in the times of Katherine II; but how is 
one to distinguish that which was inculeated in 
them in the course of their long life, from that 
which they were in the days of their youth? 

Olga Ivanovna spoke a little French, but with 
a strong Russian accent; in her day, there was no 
thought of such a thing as the emigrés.’ In a 
word, with all her good qualities, she was, never- 
theless, a decided savage, and, probably, in the 
simplicity of her heart, she more than once ad- 
ministered chastisement with her own hands to 
some unlucky maid. . . 

Some time before Vasily Ivanovitch’s arrival, 
Olga Ivdnovna had been betrothed to a neigh- 
bour,— Pavel Afandsievitch Rogatchyoff, an ex- 
tremely good-natured and honourable man. Na- 
ture had forgotten to endow him with gall. His 
own servants did not obey him; they sometimes 
all went off, from the first to the last of them, 
and left poor Rogatchyoff without any dinner 
. . . but nothing could disturb the tranquillity 
of his soul. He had been distinguished, even 
from his childhood, by his obesity and sluggish- 
ness; he had never served anywhere, and he was 


1Many exiles caused by the French Revolution found refuge in 
Russia as tutors. Some founded families there, intermarrying with 
Russians, and their Russified names are easily recognisable. —Trans- 
LATOR. 


117 


THREE PORTRAITS 


fond of going to church and singing in the choir. 
Look at that good-natured, round face, gentle- 
men; gaze at that tranquil, brilliant smile... . 
does not it make you feel cheerful yourselves? 
Once in a while his father had driven over to 
Lutchinovko, and had brought with him, on fes- 
tival days, his Pavlusha, whom the little Lutchi- 
noffs tormented in every possible way. Pavlusha 
grew up, began to go to Ivan Andréevitch’s of 
his own accord, fell in love with Olga Ivaénovna, 
and offered her his hand and his heart—not to 
her personally, but to her benefactors. Her 
benefactors gave their consent. ‘They never even 
thought of asking Olga Ivanovna whether she 
liked Rogatchyoff. At that epoch,—as our 
grandmothers used to say,—“ such luxuries were 
not in fashion.” But Olga speedily got used to 
her betrothed: it was impossible not to grow at- 
tached to that gentle, indulgent being. 
Rogatchyoff had received no education what- 
soever; all he could say in French was “ bon- 
zhour ’’—and in secret he even regarded that word 
as improper. And some jester had also taught 
him the following, which professed to be a French 
song: “ Sénetchka, Sonetchka! Que voulez-vous 
de moi—I adore you—mais je ne peux pas.” .. . 
He was always humming this song in an under- 
tone when he felt in good spirits. His father 
also was a man of indescribably kind dispo- 
sition; he was forever going about in a long 
118 


THREE PORTRAITS 


nankeen coat, and no matter what was said to him, 
he assented to everything with a smile. 

From the time of Pavel Afanasievitch’s be- 
trothal both the Rogatchy6ffs—father and son— 
began to bustle about frightfully ; they made over 
their house, they built on various “ galleries,” they 
chatted in friendly wise with the workmen, they 
treated them to vodka. They did not manage 
to finish all the additional building by winter—so 
they deferred the wedding until the summer; in 
the summer, Ivan Andréevitch died—and the wed- 
ding was postponed until the following spring; 
in the winter, Vasily Ivanovitch arrived. Ro- 
gatchyoff was introduced to him; Vasily received 
him coldly and carelessly, and in the course of 
time, frightened him to such a degree by his arro- 
gant treatment that poor Rogatchyoff quivered 
like a leaf at his mere appearance, maintained si- 
lence, and smiled constrainedly. Vasily once came 
near driving him off for good—by offering to bet 
with him that he, Rogatchyoff, was unable to 
stop smiling. Poor Pavel Afanasievitch almost 
wept with confusion, but—’t is an actual fact!— 
the smile, the very stupid, constrained smile, 
would not quit his face! And Vasily slowly toyed 
with the ends of his neckeloth, and stared at him 
in quite too scornful a manner. 

Pavel Afandsievitch’s father also learned of 
Vasily’s arrival, and a few days later—for the 
sake of “‘ the greater solemnity ”—he set out for 


119 


THREE PORTRAITS 


Lutchmovko with the intention of “ congratu- 
lating the amiable visitor on his arrival in his 
native parts.’ Afanasy Afandsievitch was re- 
nowned throughout the whole countryside for his 
eloquence—that is to say, for his ability to utter, 
without hesitation, a rather long and cunningly- 
concocted speech, with a slight admixture of 
bookish words. Alas! on this occasion he did 
not maintain his reputation; he became confused 
much worse than his son, Pavel Afandasievitch. 
He stammered out something very unintelligible, 
and, although he had never touched vodka in his 
life, having this time, “ by way of countenance,” 
drunk a small glassful (he had found Vasily 
at luncheon), he had endeavoured, at least, to 
clear his throat with a certain amount of inde- 
pendence, and had not produced the smallest 
sound. As he set out for home, Pavel Afandasie- 
vitch whispered to his parent: “ Well, dear little 
father?” Afandsy Lukitch replied to him with 
irritation, also in a whisper: “ Don’t mention it! ” 

The Rogatchyoffs began to come more rarely 
to Lutchinovko. But they were not the only 
ones whom Vasily intimidated: he aroused in 
his brothers, in their wives, even in Anna Pav- 
lovna herself, a painful and involuntary sense of 
discomfort . . . . they began to avoid him in all 
possible ways. Vasily could not help noticing 
this, but, apparently, he had no intention of al- 
tering his behaviour to them, when, all of a sud- 


120 


THREE PORTRAITS 


den, at the beginning of the spring, he again re- 
vealed himself as the same amiable, charming man 
they had previously known him to be. . . . 

The first revelation of this sudden change was 
on the occasion of Vasily’s unexpected call on 
the Rogatchyoffs. Afanasy Lukitch, in particu- 
lar, was thoroughly daunted by the sight of Lu- 
tehinoff’s calash, but his fear very speedily van- 
ished. Never had Vasily been more amiable and 
merry. He linked his arm in the arm of young 
Rogatchy6éff, walked out with him to inspect the 
buildings, chatted with the carpenters, gave them 
advice, himself made a few notches with the axe, 
ordered them to show him Afanasy Lukitch’s 
stud-horses, himself drove them at the end of 
a rope—and altogether, by his cordial amiability, 
reduced the kind-hearted steppe-dwellers to such 
a condition that they both repeatedly embraced 
him. At home, also, Vasily turned all heads for 
a few days as of yore: he devised various amusing 
games, he procured musicians, invited in the 
neighbours of both sexes, narrated the tittle-tattle 
of the town to the old ladies in the most diverting 
manner, paid some court to the young women, 
invented unheard-of amusements, fireworks, and 
so forth:—in a word, he enlivened everything and 
everybody. The sad, gloomy house of the Lu- 
tchinoffs was suddenly converted into a noisy, 
brilliant, enchanting sort of dwelling, of which the 
whole countryside talked.—This sudden change 


121 


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amazed many, delighted all, and various rumours 
got into circulation; the knowing ones said that 
some hidden trouble had, up to that time, been 
afflicting Vasily Ivdnovitch, that the possibility 
of returning to the capital had presented itself to 
him. . . . But no one divined the true cause of 
Vasily Ivdnovitch’s regeneration. 

Olga Ivanoyna, gentlemen, was very far from 
being uncomely.—But her beauty consisted 
rather in remarkable softness and freshness of 
person, in a tranquil charm of movement, than in 
strict regularity of features. Nature had en- 
dowed her with a certain independence; her edu- 
cation—she had been reared an orphan—had de- 
veloped in her caution and firmness. Olga did 
not belong to the category of quiet and languid 
young gentlewomen; but one feeling alone had 
fully ripened in her: hatred for her benefactor. 
However, other and more womanly passions also 
could flame up in Olga Ivdnovna’s soul with un- 
usual, unhealthy force .... but there was in 
her none of that proud coldness, nor that compact 
strength of soul, nor that selfish concentration, 
without which every passion speedily vanishes.— 
The first outbursts of such half-active, half-pas- 
sive souls are sometimes remarkably violent; but 
they very soon undergo a change, especially when 
it becomes a question of the ruthless application 
of accepted principles; they fear the conse- 
quences. . . . And, yet, gentlemen. I must con- 

122 


THREE PORTRAITS 


fess to you frankly: women of that sort produce 
upon me a very strong impression. . . . 


(At these words, the narrator tossed off a glass 
of water at one draught.—‘‘ Nonsense! non- 
sense! ’”’—I thought, as I looked at his round chin: 
—“on you, my dear friend, no one in the world | 
produces ‘a very strong impression.’”) .. . 

Piotr Feddorovitch went on: 


Gentlemen, I believe in blood, in race. There was 
more blood in Olga Ivanovna, than, for example, 
in her nominal sister— Natalya. How did that 
“blood” show itself?—you ask me.—Why, in 
everything; in the outline of her hands and of her 
lips, in the sound of her voice, in her glance, in her 
walk,in theway she dressed her hair,—in the folds 
of her gown, in short. In all these trifles there was 
a certain hidden something, although I must ad- 


that distinction which had fallen to the lot of Olga 
Ivanovna would not have attracted the attention 
of Vasily if he had met her in Petersburg. But 
in the country, in the wilds, she not only excited 
his attention, —but even, altogether, was the sole 
cause of the change of which I have just spoken. 

Judge for yourselves: Vasily Ivanovitch was 
fond of enjoying life; he could not help being 
bored in the country; his brothers were kind- 
hearted fellows, but extremely limited in mind; 

123 


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he had nothing in common with them. His sis- 
ter Natalya and her husband had had four chil- 
dren in the space of three years; between her and 
Vasily lay a whole abyss. .. Anna Pavlovna 
went to church, prayed, fasted, and prepared her- 
self for death. There remained only Olga, a rosy, 
timid, charming young girl. . . At first Vasily 
did not notice her . . . and who would turn his 
attention on an adopted child, an orphan, a 
foundling? .... One day, at the very begin- 
ning of spring, he was walking through the gar- 
den, and with his cane switching off the heads of 
the chicory, those stupid yellow flowers which 
make their appearance in such abundance first of 
all, in the meadows as yet hardly green.— He was 
strolling in the garden in front of the house, 
raised his head—and beheld Olga Ivanovna.— 
She was sitting with her side to the window, and 
gazing pensively at a striped kitten, which, purr- 
ing and blinking, had cuddled down on her lap, 
and with great satisfaction was presenting its 
little nose to the spring sunshine, already fairly 
briliant. Olga Ivanovna wore a white morning- 
gown with short sleeves; her bare, faintly-rosy, 
as yet not fully-developed shoulders and arms 
breathed forth freshness and health; a small cap 
discreetly confined her thick, soft, silky locks; her 
face was slightly flushed; she had not been long 
awake. Her slender, supple neck was bent for- 
ward so charmingly; her unconfined form re- 


124 


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posed so engagingly and modestly that Vasily 
Ivanovitch (a great connoisseur!) involuntarily 
halted and took a look. It suddenly came into 
his head that Olga Ivanovna ought not to be left 
in her pristine ignorance, that in time she might 
turn out to be a very charming and very amiable 
woman. He crept up to the window, raised him- 
self on tiptoe, and imprinted a silent kiss on Olga 
Ivanovna’s smooth, white arm, a little below the 
elbow.— Olga screamed and sprang to her feet, 
the kitten elevated its tail, and leaped into the 
garden; Vasily Ivanovitch detained her with his 
hand. . . . Olga blushed all over, to her very 
ears; he began to jest at her fright . . . . invited 
her to walk with him; but suddenly Olga Iva- 
novna noticed the negligence of her attire— 
“more swiftly than the swift-footed doe,” she 
slipped into the next room. 

That same day, Vasily set off for the Roga- 
tchyoffs’. He suddenly grew gay, and brightened 
up in spirit. Vasily did not fall in love with Olga, 
no!—one must not trifle with the word love. .. . 
He had found for himself an occupation, he had 
set himself a task, and was rejoicing with the joy 
of an active man. He never even called to mind 
the fact that she was his mother’s adopted child, 
the betrothed of another man; he did not deceive 
himself for 2 single instant; he was very well aware 
that she could not be his wife. . . . Perhaps pas- 
sion was his excuse—not a lofty, not a noble pas- 


125 


THREE PORTRAITS 


sion, ‘t is true, but, nevertheless, a tolerably strong 
and torturing passion. Of course he did not fall 
in love like a child; he did not surrender himself 
to unbounded raptures; he knew well what he 
wanted and what he was aiming at. 

Vasily Ivanovitch possessed to perfection the 
ability to win the favour of others, even of those 
who were prejudiced or timid. Olga speedily 
ceased to shun him. Vasily Ivanovitch intro- 
duced her into a new world. He imported a 
clavichord for her, gave her music lessons (he 
played very fairly himself on the flute), he read 
books to her, he had long talks with her. . . . The 
poor young steppe-girl’s head was turned; Va- 
sily had completely subjugated her. He knew 
how to talk to her about that which, hitherto, had 
been foreign to her, and to talk in a language 
which she understood. Olga gradually brought 
herself to express all her feelings to him; he 
helped her, suggested to her the words which she 
could not find; he did not startle her; he now re- 
pressed, now encouraged her impulses. . . . Vasily 
occupied himself with her education not out of a 
disinterested desire to awaken and develop her 
abilities; he simply wanted to bring her somewhat 
closer to him, and he knew, moreover, that it is 
easier to attract an inexperienced, shy, but vain 
young girl by the mind than by the heart. Even 
if Olga had been a remarkable being, Vasily could 
not possibly have observed it, because he treated 

126 





THREE PORTRAITS 


her like a child; but you already know, gentlemen, 
that there was nothing noteworthy about Olga. 
Vasily strove, as much as possible, to work on 
her imagination, and often of an evening she 
would leave him with such a whirl of new images, 
words, and thoughts in her head, that she was 
unable to get to sleep until dawn, and sighing 
sadly, she pressed her burning cheeks against her 
cold pillows; or she rose and went to the window, 
and gazed timorously and eagerly into the far- 
away gloom. Vasily filled every moment of her 
life; she could not think of any one else. She 
soon ceased to take any notice of Rogatchy6ff. 
Vasily, being a shrewd and clever man, did not 
speak to Olga in his presence; but he either con- 
fused him to the verge of tears, or got up some 
boisterous game, a stroll in the evening, a rowing- 
party on the river by night with lanterns and 
music,—in a word, he did not give Pavel Afana- 
sievitch a chance to recover his ground. But, 
despite all Vasily Ivanovitch’s cleverness, Ro- 
gatchyoff was dimly conscious that he, the be- 
trothed and the future husband of Olga, had be- 
come, as it were, a stranger to her . . . . but, in 
his infinite good-heartedness, he was afraid of 
wounding her by a reproach, although he really 
loved her and prized her affection. When he was 
alone with her, he did not know what to talk 
about, and merely endeavoured to serve her in 
every possible way. Two months passed. Every 
127. 


THREE PORTRAITS 


trace of independence, of will, disappeared in 
Olga; the weak and taciturn Rogatchyoff could 
not serve her as a prop; she did not even try to 
resist the fascination, and with a sinking heart 
she gave herself unconditionally to Vasily... . 

Olga Ivanovna, it is probable, then learned the 
joys of love; but not for long. Although Vasily 
—for the lack of any other occupation—not only 
did not discard her, but even became attached to 
her, and petted her, yet Olga lost herself to such a 
degree that she did not find bliss even in love, and 
nevertheless she was unable to tear herself away 
from Vasily. She began to be afraid of every- 
thing, she did not dare to think; she talked of 
nothing; she ceased to read; she became a prey 
to melancholy. Sometimes Vasily succeeded in 
drawing her after him, and making her forget 
everybody and everything; but on the following 
day he found her pale and silent, with cold hands, 
with a senseless smile on her lips. . 

A decidedly difficult time began for Vasily; 
but no difficulties could daunt him. He concen- 
trated himself completely, like an expert gam- 
bler. He could not count upon Olga ivanovna in 
the slightest degree; she was incessantly betray- 
ing herself, paling, and blushing and weeping 
... her new role was beyond her strength. 
Vasily toiled for two; in his boisterous and noisy 
joy only an experienced observer could have de- 
tected a feverish tenseness; he played with his 


128 


THREE PORTRAITS 


brothers, his sisters, the Rogatchydffs, the neigh- 
bours, both men and women,—as though they 
had been pawns; he was eternally on the alert, 
he never allowed a single glance, a single move- 
ment to escape him, although he appeared to be 
the most care-free of mortals; every morning he 
entered into battle, and every evening he cele- 
brated a victory. He was not in the least op- 
pressed by this strange activity; he slept four 
hours a day, he ate very little, and was healthy, 
fresh, and gay. In the meantime, the wedding- 
day was approaching; Vasily succeeded in con- 
vineing Pavel Afanasievitch himself of the neces- 
sity of a postponement; then he despatched him 
to Moscow to make some purchases, and himself 
entered into correspondence with his Petersburg 
friends. He exerted himself not so much out of 
compassion for Olga Ivanovna, as out of a de- 
sire and love for fuss and bustle. . . . Moreover, 
he had begun to grow tired of Olga Ivanovna, 
and more than once already, after a fierce out- 
burst of passion, he had looked at her as he had 
been wont to look at Rogatchyoff. Lutchinoff 
always remained a puzzle to every one; in the 
very coldness of his implacable spirit you felt con- 
scious of the presence of a strange, almost south- 
ern flame, and in the maddest heat of passion, 
cold emanated from that man.—In the presence 
of others, he upheld Olga Ivanovna as before; but 
when he was alone with her, he played with her 


129 


THREE PORTRAITS 


as a cat plays with a mouse—he either terrified 
her with sophisms, or he exhibited heavy and 
vicious tedium, or, in conclusion, he threw himself 
at her feet again, swept her away, as a whirlwind 
sweeps a chip .... and he was not then pre- 
tending to be in love . . . but really was swoon- 
ing with it himself. . . 

One day, quite late in the evening, Vasily was 
sitting alone in his own room and _ attentively 
perusing the latest letters he had received from 
Petersburg—when, suddenly, the door creaked 
softly and Palashka, Olga Ivanovna’s maid, en- 
tered. 

“What dost thou want?”’— Vasily asked her, 
quite curtly. 

“My mistress begs that you will come to 
her 

“T can’t at present. Go away. . . Well, why 
dost thou stand there? ’’—he went on, perceiving 
that Palashka did not leave the room. 

‘““My mistress ordered me to say that there is 
very great need, sir.” 

“Well, but what ’s the matter? ”’ 

, telease! toisee for. yourself, isinsiucan 

Vasily rose, with vexation tossed the letters into 
a casket, and betook himself to Olga Ivanovna. 
She was sitting alone in a corner,—pale and mo- 
tionless. 

“What do you want? ”—he asked her, not very 
politely. 


bP) 


130 


THREE PORTRAITS 


Olga looked at him, and with a shudder, cov- 
ered her eyes. 
“What ails you? what ’s the matter with thee, 


Olga?” 
He took her hand. . . Olga Ivdnovna’s hand 
was as cold as ice. . . She tried to speak... . 


and her voice died away. The poor woman had 
no doubt left in her mind as to her condition. 
Vasily was somewhat disconcerted. Olga Iva- 
novna’s room was a couple of paces from the bed- 
room of Anna Pavlovna. Vasily cautiously 
seated himself beside Olga, kissed and warmed 
her hands, and argued with her in a whisper. She 
listened to him, and shivered silently, slightly. 
Palashka stood in the doorway and softly wiped 
away her tears. In the adjoining room a pen- 
dulum was beating heavily and regularly, and the 
breathing of a sleeper was audible. Olga Iv4- 
novna’s torpor dissolved, at last, in tears and dull 
sobs. Tears are the equivalent of a thunder- 
storm: after them a person is always quieter. 
When Olga Ivanovna had become somewhat com- 
posed, and only sobbed convulsively from time to 
time like a child, Vasily knelt down before her, 
and with caresses and tender promises soothed her 
completely, gave her a drink of water, put her 
to bed, and went away. All night long he did 
not undress himself, wrote two or three letters, 
burned two or three papers, got out a golden 
locket with the portrait of a black-browed and 
131 


THREE PORTRAITS 


black-eyed woman, with a bold, sensual face, 
gazed long at her features, and paced his cham- 
ber in thought. On the following morning, at 
tea, he beheld, with a good deal of dissatisfaction, 
poor Olga’s reddened, swollen eyes, and pale, dis- 
traught face. After breakfast, he proposed to 
her that she should take a stroll with him in 
the park. Olga followed Vasily like an obedi- 
ent sheep. But when, two hours later, she re- 
turned from the park, she looked dreadfully; she 
told Anna Pavlovna that she felt ill, and went to 
bed. During the walk, Vasily had announced to 
her, with all due penitence, that he was secretly 
married—he was just as much a bachelor as I 
am. Olga Ivdnovna did not fall down in a swoon 
—people fall in swoons only on the stage; but 
she became suddenly petrified, although she not 
only had not been hoping to marry Vasily Iva- 
novitch, but had even, somehow, been afraid 
to think of it. Vasily began to demonstrate to 
her the necessity of parting from bim and mar- 
rying Rogatchyoff. Olga Ivanovna looked at 
him with dumb horror. Vasily talked coldly, 
practically, sensibly; he blamed himself, he ex- 
pressed regret,—but all his arguments wound up 
with the following words: “ We must act.” Olga 
lost her head completely; she was frightened 
and ashamed; dismal, heavy despair took posses- 
sion of her; she longed for death—and sadly 
awaited Vasily’s decision. 
132 


THREE PORTRAITS 


“We must confess all to my mother,” he said 
at last. 

Olga turned deadly pale; her limbs gave way 
beneath her. 

“Don’t be frightened, don’t be frightened,” 
—Vasily kept repeating:—“ rely on me; I will 
not forsake thee . . . I will arrange everything 
eae wrust nme,” 

The poor woman gazed at him with love... yes, 
with love, and with profound, though hopeless 
devotion. 

“T will arrange everything, everything,’ — 
said Vasily to her at parting ... and for the 
last time kissed her ice-cold hands. 

Olga Ivanovna had just risen from her bed on 
the following morning, when her door opened 

. and Anna Pavlovna made her appearance 
on the threshold. She was supported by Vasily. 
Silently she made her way to an arm-chair, and 
silently seated herself. Vasily stood beside her. 
He seemed composed; his brows were contracted, 
and his lips were slightly parted. Anna Pay- 
lovna, pale, indignant, wrathful, tried to speak, 
but her voice failed her. Olga Ivanovna with 
terror, took in, in a single glance, her benefac- 
tress and her lover; she felt a frightful sinking 
at the heart . . . with a shriek she fell down on 
her knees in the middle of the room and covered 
her face with her hands. .. . 

Hoot ds true. ...,tb.is true?.”. whispered 


133 


THREE PORTRAITS 


Anna Pavlovna, and bent toward her... . “An- 
swer!’’—she went on harshly, seizing Olga by 
the arm. 


“Mamma!” rang out Vasily’s brazen voice,— 
S . 
“you promised me not to insult her.” 


“TI won't... come, confess... . confess 

. is it true? Is it true?” 

“Mamma ... remember! . . .” said: Vasily, 
slowly. 


That one word shook Anna Pavlovna violently. 
She leaned against the back of her chair, and fell 
to sobbing. 

Olga Ivanovna softly raised her head and at- 
tempted to fling herself at the old woman’s feet, 
but Vasily restrained her, raised her up, and 
seated her in another arm-chair. Anna Pavlovna 
continued to weep and whisper incoherent 
Words: (3 

“ Listen, mamma,’—began Vasily. “Don’t 
be so overwhelmed! This calamity can still be al- 
leviated:\).0201f Rogatchyofnc2’ 

Olga Ivanovna shuddered and straightened 
herself up. 

“Tf Rogatchyoff,’—pursued Vasily, with a 
significant glance at Olga Ivanovna,—“ has im- 
agined that he can with impunity disgrace an 
honourable family ... .” 

Olga Ivanovna was terrified. 

“In my house,”—moaned Anna Pavlovna. 

“Calm yourself, mamma. He has taken ad- 


134 


THREE PORTRAITS 


vantage of her inexperience, of her youth, he 
. +... did you wish to say something? ”’—he 
added, perceiving that Olga was trying to get at 
him. 

Olga Ivanovna fell back in her chair. 

“I shall go at once to Rogatchyoff. I shall 
force him to wed her this very day. Be assured, 
I shall not permit him to jeer at us. i 

~ But .. . Vasily Ivdnovitch . . . you 
whispered Olga. 

He stared long and coldly at her. She relapsed 
into silence. 

“Mamma, give me your word not to disturb 
her until my arrival. See—she is barely alive. 
Yes, and you require rest yourself. Trust to 
me: I answer for everything; in any case, await 
my return. I repeat to you—do not kill her, nor 
yourself—rely upon me.” 

He walked to the door, and paused. 

“ Mamma,” —he said: ‘“‘ come with me. Leave 
her alone, I beg of you.” 

Anna Pavlovna rose, went to the holy picture, 
made a reverence to the floor, and softly followed 
her son. Olga Ivanovyna followed her silently 
and immovably with her eyes. Vasily hastily 
came back, seized her hand, whispered in her ear: 
“Trust to me, and do not betray us,” —and im- 
mediately withdrew. .. . 

“ Boursier!”’ he shouted, as he ran swiftly 
down the stairs.—“ Boursier! ” 


135 


99 
. 


THREE PORTRAITS 


‘A quarter of an hour later he was seated in his 
calash with his servant. 

Old Rogatchyoff was not at home that day. 
He had gone to the county town, to buy seer- 
sucker for kaftans to clothe his retainers. Pavel 
Afandsievitch was sitting in his study, and in- 
specting a collection of faded butterflies. Ele- 
vating his eyebrows, and thrusting forth his lips, 
he was cautiously turning about with a pin the 
large wings of the “nocturnal sphinx,” when 
suddenly, he felt a small but heavy hand on his 
shoulder. He glanced round—before him stood 
Vasily. 

“Good morning, Vasily Ivanovitch,” —said he, 
not without some surprise. 

Vasily looked at him and sat down in front of 
him on a chair. 

Pavel Afandsievitch was about to smile. . . 
but glanced at Vasily, relaxed, opened his mouth, 
and clasped his hands. 

“ Come, tell me, Pavel Afanasievitch,’ — began 
Vasily, suddenly:—“ do you intend to have the 
wedding soon?” 


6? y/soon 2s). of “course. ...).L, solfarees 
I am concerned ... . however, that is as you 
and your sister choose. . . . I, for my part, am 


ready to-morrow, if you like.” 
“Very good, very good. You are a very im- 
patient man, Pavel Afanasievitch.” 
‘“‘ How so, sir?” 
136 


THREE PORTRAITS 


“ Listen,’—added Vasily Ivanovitch, rising 
to his feet:—‘‘ I know everything; you under- 
stand me, and I order you to marry Olga without 
delay, to-morrow.” 

“ But excuse me, excuse me,”—returned Ro- 
gatchyoff, without rising from his seat;—‘“ you 
order me? I myself have sought the hand of 
Olga Ivanovna, and there is no need to order me. 
I must confess, Vasily Ivdnovitch, somehow, I 
don’t understand you. . . .” 

“Thou dost not understand? ” 

“No, really, I don’t understand, sir.” 

“ Wilt thou give me thy word to marry her to- 
morrow?” 

“ Why, good gracious, Vasily Ivanovitch .... 
have n't you yourself repeatedly postponed our 
marriage? If it had not been for you, it would 
have taken place long ago. And even now I 
have no idea of refusing. But what is the mean- 
ing of your threats, of your urgent demands? ” 

Pavel Afanasievitch wiped the perspiration 
from his face. 

“ Wilt thou give me thy word? Speak! Yes, 
or no?”’—repeated Vasily with pauses between 
his words. 

“Certainly . . . I give it, sir, but . 

“Good. Remember. . .. And she has con- 
fessed everything.” 

“Who has confessed?” 

“ Olga Ivanovna.” 


137 


39 


THREE PORTRAITS 


“But what has she confessed? ” 

“Why do you dissimulate with me, Pavel 
Afanasievitch? Surely, I ’m not a stranger to 
you.” 

‘“ How am I dissimulating? I don’t understand 
you, I don’t understand you, positively I don’t 
understand you. What could Olga Ivanovna 
confess?” 

“What? You bore me! You know well what.” 

> May God slay ment, 00.’ 

“No, I will slay thee—if thou dost not marry 
her . . . . dost understand? ”’ 


“What! ....” Pavel Afanasievitch leaped 
to his feet, and stood before Vasily.—“ Olga Iva- 
novnae. |S lt you! Say! san te 


“ Thou ’rt clever, my good fellow, very clever, 
I must admit.” Vasily, with a smile, tapped him 
on the shoulder.—“ In spite of the fact that thou 
art'so mild ofaspect’....7 

“My God, O God! ... You will drive me 
mad. . . What do you mean to say? Explain 
yourself, for God’s sake!” 

Vasily bent over him and whispered something 
in his ear. 

Rogatchyoff cried out:—“ What?.... how?” 

Vasily stamped his foot. 

“ Olga Ivanovna? Olga?... 

“Ves .. iis! your betrothed bride.) 173% 

“My betrothed bride .... Vasily Ivano- 
vitch....she....she.... But I will have no- 


138 


> 


THREE PORTRAITS 


thing to do with her! ’’—shouted Pavel Afanasie- 
vitch. “I ‘ll have none of her! What do you 
take me for? To deceive me—to deceive me! 
. . . Olga Ivanovna, is n’t it sinful of you, are n’t 
you ashamed? ....” (Tears gushed from his 
eyes. ) —“ I thank you, Vasily Ivanovitch, I thank 
you. .. . And now [ ’ll have nothing to do with 
her! I won’t! I won’t! don’t speak of such a 
thing! . . . . Akh, good heavens!—that I should 
have lived to see this day! But it is well, it is 
well!” 

“Stop behaving like a_baby,’—remarked 
Vasily Ivanovitch, coldly.—‘‘ Remember, you 
have given me your word that the wedding shall 
take place to-morrow.” 

“No, that shall not be! Enough, Vasfly Iv4- 
novitch, I say to you once more—for whom do 
you take me? You do me much honour; many 
thanks, sir. Excuse me, sir.” 

“ As you like! ”—retorted Vasily.—‘“‘ Get your 
sword.” 

“Why?” 

“ This is why.” 

Vasily drew out his slender, flexible French 
sword, and bent it slightly against the floor. 

fs om mean: 6. tonight’... with me? >) 1? 

“Precisely so.” 

“But, Vasily Ivdnovitch, pray, enter into 
my position! How can I—judge for yourself 
—after what you have told me?...I am 

139 


THREE PORTRAITS 


an honest man, Vasily Ivanovitch; I am a noble- 
man.” 

* You are a nobleman, you are an honest man, 
—then be so good as to fight with me.” 

“Vasily Ivanovitch!” 

“You appear to be a coward, Mr. Roga- 
tchy off ? ”’ 

‘“ T am not in the least a coward, Vasily Ivano- 
vitch. You have thought to frighten me, Vasily 
Ivanovitch. ‘Come, now,’ you said to yourself, 
“I'll seare him, and he 71] turn cowardly; he will 
instantly consent to anything.’ . . . . No, Vasily 
Ivanovitch, I ’m the same sort of nobleman as 
yourself, although I have not received my edu- 
cation in the capital, it is true; and you will not 
succeed in terrifying me, excuse me.” 

“Very good,’—retorted Vasily:—“ where is 
your sword?” 

“ Kroshka! ”’—shouted Pavel Afandasievitch. 

A man entered. 

“* Get my sword— yonder—thou knowest where 
it is—in the garret .... and be quick about 
ha ea 

Eréshka withdrew. Pavel Afanasievitch sud- 
denly turned extremely pale, hastily took off his 
dressing-gown, put on a kaftan of a reddish hue 
with large strass buttons . . . . wound a neck- 
cloth round his neck. . . . Vasily watched him, 
and examined the fingers of his right hand. 

“So how is it to be? Are we to fight, Pavel 
Afandasievitch?” 

140 


THREE PORTRAITS 


“Tf we must fight, we must,’—returned Ro- 
gatchyoff, hastily buttoning his waistcoat. 

“Hey, Pavel Afanasievitch, heed my advice: 
marry .... why shouldst thou not? ... But 
I, believe me... .” 

“No, Vasily Ivanovitch,’—Rogatchy6off in- 
terrupted him. “ You will either kill me or maim 
me, I know; but I have no intention of losing 
my honour; if I must die, I will.” 

Eroshka entered and hurriedly handed Ro- 
gatchyoff a wretched little old sword, in a 
cracked, leather scabbard. At that time all 
nobles wore swords when they had powdered hair; 
but the nobles of the steppes only powdered 
their hair a couple of times a year. Eroshka 
retreated to the door, and fell to weeping. 
Pavel Afandasievitch thrust him out of the 
room. 

“ But, Vasily Ivanovitch,”’—he remarked, with 
some agitation,—“ I cannot fight with you in- 
stantly: permit me to defer our duel until to- 
morrow; my father is not at home; and it would 
not be a bad thing to put my affairs in order, 
in case of a catastrophe.” 

“T see that you are beginning to quail again, 
my dear sir.” 

“No, no, Vasily Ivadnovitch; but judge for 


yourself... .” 
“Listen!” . .. shouted lLutchinoff:—“ you 
are driving me out of patience. . . . Either give 


me your word to marry immediately, or fight 
141 


THREE PORTRAITS 


.... or] will trounce you with a cudgel, like 
a coward, do you understand?” 

“Let us go into the park,’—replied Roga- 
tchyoff between his teeth. 

But suddenly the door opened, and the old 
nurse Efimovna, all dishevelled, forced her way 
into the room, fell on her knees before Roga- 
tchyoff and clasped his feet. .. . 

“ My dear little father! ”’—she wailed:—“ my 
child... . what is this thou art projecting? 
Do not ruin us miserable ones, dear little fa- 
ther! For he will kill thee, my dear little dove! 
But only give us the command, give us the 
command, and we ‘ll kill that insolent fellow 
with our caps. . . . Pavel Afandsievitch, my dar- 
ling child, have the fear of God before thine 
eyes!” 

A multitude of pale and agitated faces showed 
themselves in the doorway .... the red beard 
of the Elder even made its appearance. .. . 

“Let me go, Efimovna, let me go!”’—mut- 
tered Rogatchyoff. 

“ T will not let thee go, my own one, I will not 
let thee go. What art thou doing, dear little 
father, what art thou doing? And what will > 
Afanasy Lukitch say? Why, he will drive all 
of us out of the white world. . . . And why do 
ye stand there? Seize the unbidden guest by the 
arms, and lead him forth from the house, that 
no trace of him may remain. .. .” 


142 


THREE PORTRAITS 


“ Rogatchyoff! ”’—shouted Vasily Ivanovitch, 
menacingly. 

“Thou hast gone crazy, Efimovna, thou art 
disgracing me,” . . . . said Pavel Afanasievitch. 
—“Go away, go, with God’s blessing, and be- 
gone, all of you, do you hear? Do you hear?...” 

Vasily Ivanovitch walked swiftly to the open 
window, drew out a small silver whistle, and whis- 
tled lightly. . . . Boursier answered close at 
hand. Lutchinoff immediately turned to Pavel 
A fanasievitch. 

“ How is this comedy to end?” 

“Vasily Ivanovitch, I will come to you to- 
morrow—what am I to do with this crazy 


“Eh! I see that it is useless to talk long with 
you,’—said Vasily, and swiftly raised his 
eaHe! 135): 

Pavel Afandsievitch dashed forward, thrust 
aside Efimovna, seized his sword, and rushed 
through the other door into the park. 

Vasily darted after him. They both ran to a 
wooden arbour artfully painted in the Chinese 
manner, locked themselves in, and bared their 
swords. Rogatchyoff had once upon a time taken 
lessons in fencing; but he barely knew how to 
parry properly. The blades crossed. Vasily was, 
evidently, playing with Rogatchyoff’s sword. Pa- 
vel Afandsievitch sighed, turned pale, and gazed 
with consternation into Lutchinoff’s face. In the 


143 


THREE PORTRAITS 


meanwhile, cries resounded in the park; a throng 
of people rushed to the arbour. Suddenly Ro- 
gatchyoff heard a heart-rending, senile roar.... 
he recognised his father’s voice. Afanasy Lu- 
kitch, hatless, and with dishevelled locks, was 
running in front of all, waving his arms de- 
spairmeply:) vs) a): 

With a powerful and unexpected turn of his 
blade, Vasily knocked the sword from Pavel 
Afanasievitch’s hand. 

“Marry, brother,’—he said to him.—“‘ Stop 
being a fool!” 

“ T will not marry! ”’—whispered Rogatchy6off, 
closed his eyes, and trembled all over. 

Afanasy Lukitch began to pound on the door 
of the arbour. 

“Thou wilt not?”—shouted Vasily. 

Rogatchy6ff shook his head in the negative. 

“Well, then, the devil take thee!” 

Poor Pavel Afanasievitch fell dead: Lutchi- 
noff’s sword had pierced his heart. . . . The door 
burst open, old Rogatchyoff rushed into the ar- 
bour, but Vasily had already managed to spring 
out of the window. . . 

Two hours later, he entered Olga Ivanovna’s 
room. . . She darted to meet him in affright. 
. . . He silently bowed to her, drew out his sword, 
and pierced Pavel Afandsievitch’s portrait at the 
place of the heart. Olga shrieked, and fell 
senseless on the floor. . . . Vasily directed his 

144 


THREE PORTRAITS 


steps to Anna Pavlovna. He found her in the 
room of the holy pictures. 

“Mamma,”—he said,—“ we are avenged.” 

The poor old woman shuddered and went on 
praying. 

A week later, Vasily took his departure for 
Petersburg,—and two years afterward he re- 
turned to the country, crippled with paralysis, 
and speechless. He no longer found either Anna 
Pavlovna or Olga Ivanovna alive, and soon died 
himself in the arms of Yuditch, who fed him like 
a baby, and was the only person who could un- 
derstand his incoherent babble. 


145 


“A 
4 


hel 


\ 
' 


‘eh 


Haye 


Wa a 





THREE MEETINGS 


(1851) 





» amet) i a4 a) . 
p Lo 
pee : Ri en i a 
iste? PU A ii 
, Tae) Auld 
é if 
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COAT IN AT 


\ if t ct | } 





THREE MEETINGS 


ii 


Passa que’ colli e vieni allegramente; 
Non ti curar di tanta compania— 

Vieni pensando a me segretamente— 
Ch’io t’ accompagna per tutta la via.! 


URING the whole course of the summer, 

I had gone a-hunting nowhere so frequently 

as to the large village of Glinnoe, situated twenty 
versts from my hamlet. In the environs of this 
village there are, in all probability, the very best 
haunts of game in all our county. After having 
tramped through all the adjacent bush-plots and 
fields, I invariably, toward the end of the day, 
turned aside into the neighbouring marsh, al- 
most the only one in the countryside, and thence 
returned to my cordial host, the Elder of Glin- 
noe, with whom I always stopped. It is not more 
than two versts from the marsh to Glinnoe; the 
entire road runs through a valley, and only 
midway of the distance is one compelled to cross 
a small hillock. On the crest of this hillock les 
a homestead, consisting of one uninhabited little 


1Pass through these hills and come cheerily to me: care thou not 
for too great a company. Come thou, and think secretly of me, that 
I may be thy comrade all the way. 


149 


THREE MEETINGS 


manor-house and a garden. It almost always 
happened that I passed it at the very acme of the 
sunset glow, and I remember, that on every such 
occasion, this house, with its hermetically-sealed 
windows, appeared to me like a blind old man 
who had come forth to warm himself in the 
sunlight. He is sitting, dear man, close to the 
highway; the splendour of the sunlight has long 
since been superseded for him by eternal gloom; 
but he feels it, at least, on his upturned and out- 
stretched face, on his flushed cheeks. It seemed 
as though no one had lived in the house itself for 
a long time; but in a tiny detached wing, in 
the courtyard, lodged a decrepit man who had 
received his freedom, tall, stooping, and grey- 
haired, with expressive and impassive features. 
He was always sitting on a bench in front of the 
wing’s solitary little window, gazing with sad 
pensiveness into the distance, and when he caught 
sight of me, he rose a little way and saluted, with 
that deliberate gravity which distinguishes old 
house-serfs who have belonged not to the gen- 
eration of our fathers, but to our grandfathers. 
I sometimes entered into conversation with him, 
but he was not loquacious; all I learned from 
him was that the farm on which he dwelt be- 
longed to the granddaughter of his old master, 
a widow, who had a younger sister; that both of 
them lived in towns, and beyond the sea, and 
never showed themselves at home; that he was 


150 


THREE MEETINGS 


anxious to finish his life as speedily as possible, 
because “ you eat and eat bread so that you get 
melancholy: so long do you eat.” This old man’s 
name was Lukyanitch. 

One day, for some reason or other, I tarried 
long in the fields; a very fair amount of game 
had presented itself, and the day had turned out 
fine for hunting—from early morning it had 
been still and grey, as though thoroughly per- 
meated with evening. I wandered far a-field, and 
it was not only already completely dark, but the 
moon had risen and night had Jong been standing 
in the sky, as the expression runs, when I reached 
the familiar farm. I had to pass along the gar- 
den. . . All around lay such tranquillity. . . 

I crossed the broad road, cautiously made my 
way through the dusty nettles, and leaned against 
the low, wattled hedge.'' Motionless before me 
lay the small garden all illuminated and, as it 
were, soothed to stillness by the silvery rays of 
the moon,—all fragrant and humid; laid out in 
ancient fashion, it consisted of a single oblong 
grass-plot. Straight paths came together ex- 
actly in the centre, in a circular flower-bed, 
thickly overgrown with asters; tall lindens sur- 
rounded it in an even border. In one spot only 
was this border, a couple of fathoms in length, 
broken, and through the gap a part of the low- 


1In central and southern Russia where timber is scarce, fences, 
and even the walls of barns and store-houses, are made of interlaced 
boughs. — TRANSLATOR. 


151 


THREE MEETINGS 


roofed house was visible, with two windows 
fighted, to my amazement. Young apple-trees 
reared themselves here and there over the mea- 
dow; athwart their slender branches the nocturnal 
sky gleamed softly blue, and the dreamy light 
of the moon streamed down; in front of each 
apple-tree, on the whitening grass, lay its faint, 
mottled shadow. On one side of the garden the 
lindens were confusedly green, inundated with 
motionless, palely-brilliant light; on the other, 
they stood all black and opaque; a strange, re- 
pressed rustling arose at times in their dense 
foliage; they seemed to be calling to the paths 
which vanished under them, as though luring 
them beneath their dim canopy. The whole sky 
was studded with stars; mysteriously did their 
soft blue scintillations stream down from on high; 
they seemed to be gazing with quiet intentness 
at the distant earth. Small, thin clouds now and 
then sailed across the moon, momentarily con- 
verting its tranquil gleam into an obscure but 
luminous mist. . . . Everything was dreaming. 
The air, all warm, all perfumed, did not even vi- 
brate; it only shivered now and then, as water 
shivers when disturbed by a falling branch. . . . 
One was conscious of a certain thirst, a certain 
swooning in it. . . I bent over the fence: a wild 
scarlet poppy reared its erect little stalk before 
me from the matted grass; a large, round drop 
of night dew glittered with a dark gleam in the 


152 


THREE MEETINGS 


heart of the open blossom. Everything was 
dreaming; everything was taking its ease lux- 
uriously round about; everything seemed to be 
gazing upward, stretching itself out, motionless, 
expectant. . . What was it that that warm, not 
yet sleeping night, was waiting for? 

It was waiting for a sound; that sensitive still- 
ness was waiting for a living voice—but every- 
thing maintained silence. The nightingales had 
long since ceased their song . . . and the sud- 
den booming of a beetle as it flew past, the light 
smacking of a tiny fish in the fish-pond behind 
the lindens at the end of the garden, the sleepy 
whistle of a startled bird, a distant cry in the 
fields,—so far away that the ear could not dis- 
tinguish whether it was a man, or a wild animal, 
or a bird which had uttered it,—a short, brisk 
trampling of hoofs on the road: all these faint 
sounds, these rustlings, only rendered the still- 
ness more profound. . . My heart yearned within 
me, with an indefinite feeling, akin not precisely 
to expectation, nor yet to a memory of happiness. 
I dared not stir; I was standing motionless be- 
fore this motionless garden steeped in moon- 
light and in dew, and, without myself knowing 
why, was staring importunately at those two 
windows, which shone dimly red in the soft 
half-darkness, when suddenly a chord rang 
out of the house,—rang out and rolled forth in a 
flood. . . . The irritatingly-resonant air thun- 

153 


THREE MEETINGS 


dered back an echo. . . . I gave an involuntary 
start. 

The chord was followed by the sound of a 
woman's voice. . . I began to listen eagerly— 
and ...can I express my amazement?... 
two years previously, in Italy, at Sorrento, I had 
heard that selfsame song, that selfsame voice. 
Sieeiey C821 VES 1.7% 


** Vieni pensando a me segretamente . . .”” 


It was they; I had recognised them; those were 
the sounds. . . This is the way it had happened. 
I was returning home from a long stroll on the 
seashore. I was walking swiftly along the street; 
night had long since descended,—a magnificent 
night, southern, not calm and sadly-pensive as 
with us, no! but all radiant, sumptuous, and very 
beautiful, like a happy woman in her bloom; the 
moon shone with incredible brilliancy; great, ra- 
diant stars fairly throbbed in the dark-blue sky; 
the black shadows were sharply defined against 
the ground illuminated to yellowness. On both 
sides of the street stretched the stone walls of 
gardens; orange-trees reared above them their 
crooked branches; the golden globes of heavy 
fruit, hidden amidst the interlacing leaves, were 
now barely visible, now glowed brightly, as they 
ostentatiously displayed themselves in the moon- 
light. On many trees the blossoms shone tenderly 
white; the air was all impregnated with fragrance 


154 





THREE MEETINGS 


languishingly powerful, penetrating, and almost 
heavy, although inexpressibly sweet. 

I walked on, and, I must confess,—having al- 
ready become accustomed to all these wonders, — 
I was thinking only of how I might most speedily 
reach my inn, when suddenly, from a small pa- 
vilion, built upon the very wall of a garden along 
which I was passing, a woman’s voice rang out. 
It was singing some song with which I was un- 
familiar, and in its sounds there was something 
so winning, it seemed so permeated with the pas- 
sion and joyous expectation expressed by the 
words of the song, that I instantly and involun- 
tarily halted, and raised my head. There were 
two windows in the pavilion; but in both the 
Venetian blinds were lowered, and through their 
narrow chinks a dull light barely made its way. 

After having repeated “ vient, vient!” twice, 
the voice became silent; the faint sound of strings 
was audible, as though of a guitar which had 
fallen on the rug; a gown rustled, the floor 
creaked softly. The streaks of light in one win- 
dow disappeared. . . Some one had approached 
from within and leaned against it. I advanced 
a couple of paces. Suddenly the blind clattered 
and flew open; a graceful woman, all in white, 
swiftly thrust her lovely head from the window, 
and stretching out her arms toward me, said: 
* Sei tu?” 

I was disconcerted, I did not know what to say; 

155 


THREE MEETINGS 


but at that same moment the Unknown threw her- 
self backward with a faint shriek, the blind 
slammed to, and the light in the pavilion grew 
still more dim, as though it had been carried out 
into another room. I remained motionless, and 
for a long time could not recover myself. ‘The 
face of the woman who had so suddenly pre- 
sented itself before me was strikingly beautiful. 
It had flashed too rapidly before my eyes to per- 
mit of my immediately recalling each individual 
feature; but the general impression was inde- 
scribably powerful and profound. ... I felt 
then and there that I should never forget that 
countenance. The moon fell straight on the wall 
of the pavilion, on the window whence she had 
shown herself to me, and, great heavens! how 
magnificently had her great, dark eyes shone in 
its radiance! In what a heavy flood had her half- 
loosened black hair fallen upon her uplifted, 
rounded shoulders! How much bashful tender- 
ness there had been in the soft inclination of her 
form, how much affection in her voice, when she 
had called to me—in that hurried, but resonant 
whisper! 

After standing for quite a long time on one 
spot, I at last stepped a little aside, into the 
shadow of the opposite wall, and began to stare 
thence at the pavilion with a sort of stupid sur- 
prise and anticipation. I listened ... . listened 
with strained attention. . . It seemed to me now 


156 


THREE MEETINGS 


that I heard some one’s quiet breathing behind 
the darkened window, now a rustle and quiet 
laughter. At last, steps resounded in the dis- 
tance . . . they came nearer; a man of almost 
identical stature with myself made his appear- 
ance at the end of the street, briskly strode up 
to a gate directly beneath the pavilion, which I 
had not previously noticed, knocked twice with 
its iron ring, without looking about him, waited 
a little, knocked again, and began to sing in an 
undertone: “Ecco ridente.” . . . The gate 
opened . . . he slipped noiselessly through it. 
I started, shook my head, threw my hands apart, 
and pulling my hat morosely down on my brows, 
went off home in displeasure. On the following 
day I vainly paced up and down that street for 
two hours in the very hottest part of the day, past 
the pavilion, and that same evening went away 
from Sorrento without even having visited 
Tasso’s house. 

The reader can now picture to himself the 
amazement which suddenly took possession of 
me, when I heard that same voice, that same song, 
in the steppes, in one of the most remote parts of 
Russia. . . . Now, as then, it was night; now, 
as then, the voice suddenly rang out from a 
lighted, unfamiliar room; now, as then, I was 
alone. My heart began to beat violently within 
me. “Is not this a dream?” I thought. And lo! 
again the final “ vient!” rang out. . . . Can it 

Lav 


THREE MEETINGS 


be that the window will open? Can it be that 
the woman will show herself in it?—The window 
opened. In the window, a woman showed herself. 
I instantly recognised her, although a distance 
of fifty paces lay between us, although a light 
cloud obscured the moon. It was she, my Un- 
known of Sorrento. 

But she did not stretch forth her bare arms 
as before: she folded them quietly, and leaning 
them on the window-sill, began to gaze silently 
and immovably at some point in the garden. Yes, 
it was she; those were her never-to-be-forgotten 
features, her eyes, the like of which I had never 
beheld. Now, also, an ample white gown en- 
folded her limbs. She seemed somewhat plumper 
than in Sorrento. Everything about exhaled an 
atmosphere of the confidence and repose of love, 
the triumph of beauty, of calm happiness. For 
a long time she did not stir, then she cast a 
glance backward into the room and, suddenly 
straightening herself up, exclaimed thrice, in 
a loud and ringing voice: “ Addio!” The beau- 
tiful sounds were wafted far, far away, and for 
a long time they quivered, growing fainter and 
dying out beneath the lindens of the garden and 
in the fields behind me, and everywhere. Every- 
thing around me was filled for several minutes 
with the voice of this woman, everything rang in 
response to her,—rang with her. She shut the 
window, and a few moments later the light in the 
house vanished. 

158 


THREE MEETINGS 


As soon as I recovered myself—and this was 
not very soon, I must admit—I immediately di- 
rected my course along the garden of the manor, 
approached the closed gate, and peered through 
the wattled fence. Nothing out of the ordinary 
was visible in the courtyard; in one corner, under 
a shed, stood a calash. Its front half, all bespat- 
tered with dried mud, shone out sharply white in 
the moonlight. The shutters of the house were 
closed, as before. 

I have forgotten to say, that for about a week 
previous to that day, I had not visited Glinnoe. 
For more than half an hour I paced to and fro 
in perplexity in front of the fence, so that, at last, 
I attracted the attention of the old watch-dog, 
which, nevertheless, did not begin to bark at me, 
but merely looked at me from under the gate 
in a remarkably ironical manner, with his pur- 
blind little eyes puckered up. I understood his 
hint, and beat a retreat. But before I had man- 
aged to traverse half a verst, I suddenly heard 
the sound of a horse’s hoofs behind me. . . . In 
a few minutes a rider, mounted on a black horse, 
dashed past me at a swift trot, and swiftly turn- 
ing toward me his face, where I could descry 
nothing save an aquiline nose and a very hand- 
some moustache under his military cap, which was 
pulled well down on his brow, turned into the 
right-hand road, and immediately vanished be- 
hind the forest. 

“So that is he,” I thought to myself, and my 


159 


THREE MEETINGS 


heart stirred within me in a strange sort of way. 
It seemed to me that I recognised him; his figure 
really did suggest the figure of the man whom I 
had seen enter the garden-gate in Sorrento. Half 
an hour later I was in Glinnoe at my host’s, had 
roused him, and had immediately begun to in- 
terrogate him as to the persons who had arrived 
at the neighbouring farm. He replied with an 
effort that the ladies had arrived. 

“ But what ladies?” 

“Why, everybody knows what ladies,” he re- 
plied very languidly. 

“ Russians?” 

“What else should they be?—Russians, of 
course.” 

“ Not foreigners? ” 

robtey?: 

‘“‘ Have they been here long?” 

‘“‘ Not long, of course.” 

“And have they come to stay long?” 

“ That I don’t know.” 

“ Are they wealthy?” 

“And that, too, we don’t know. Perhaps they 
are wealthy.” 

“ Did not a gentleman come with them?” 

“A gentleman?” 

“Yes, a gentleman.” 

The Elder sighed. 

“O, okh, O Lord!”—he ejaculated with a 
yawn. ... “ N-n-o, there was no... . gentle- 


160 


THREE MEETINGS 


man, I think there was no gentleman. I don’t 
know! ”’—he suddenly added. 

“ And what sort of other neighbours are living 
here? ” 

“What sort? everybody knows what sort,—all 
sorts.” 

“ All sorts?— And what are their names? ” 

“ Whose—the lady proprietors’? or the neigh- 
bours’? ” 

“The lady proprietors’.” 

Again the Elder yawned. 

“What are their names?”—he muttered.— 
“Why, God knows what their names are! ‘The 
elder, I think, is named Anna Feddoroyvna, and 
the other... No, I don’t know that one’s name.” 

“ Well, what ’s their surname, at least?” 

“ Their surname?” 

“ Ves, their surname, their family name.” 

“ Their family name. . . . Yes. Why, as God 
is my witness, I don’t know.” 

“ Are they young?” 

“ Well, no. They are not.” 

“ How old are they, then?” 

“ Why, the youngest must be over forty.” 

“ Thou art inventing the whole of this.” 

The Elder was silent for a while. 

“Well, you must know best. But I don’t 
know.” 

“ Well, thou art wound up to say one thing!” 
—T exclaimed with vexation. 

16] 


THREE MEETINGS 


Knowing, by experience, that there is no pos- 
sibility of extracting anything lucid from a Rus- 
sian man when once he undertakes to answer in 
that way (and, moreover, my host had only just 
thrown himself down to sleep, and swayed for- 
ward slightly before every answer, opening his 
eyes widely with child-like surprise, and with dif- 
ficulty ungluing his lips, smeared with the honey 
of the first, sweet slumber),—I gave up in de- 
spair, and declining supper, went into the barn. 

I could not get to sleep for a long time. 
“Who is she?’’—I kept incessantly asking my- 
self :—‘‘a Russian? If a Russian, why does she 
speak in Italian? . . . . The Elder declares that 
she is not young. . . . Buthe’s lying. . . . And 
who is that happy man? . . Positively, I can com- 
prehend nothing. . . But what a strange adven- 
ture! Is it possible that thus, twice in succes- 
stom sh. ciel But I will infallibly find out who 
she is, and why she has come hither.” . . . Agi- 
tated by such disordered, fragmentary thoughts 
as these, I fell asleep late, and saw strange 
visions. . . . Now it seems to me that I am 
wandering in some desert, in the very blaze of 
noonday—and suddenly, I behold in front of 
me, a huge spot of shadow running over the red- 
hot yellow sand. . . I raise my head—’t is she, 
my beauty, whisking through the air, all white, 
with long white wings, and beckoning me to 
her. I dart after her; but she floats on lightly 

162 


THREE MEETINGS 


and swiftly, and I cannot rise from the ground, 


and stretch out eager hands in vain... . “ Ad- 
dio!” she says to me, as she flies away.—‘ Why 
hast thou not wings? .. Addio!” .... And 


lo, from all sides, “ Addio!” resounds. Every 
grain of sand shouts and squeaks at me: “ Ad- 
dio!” ... then rings out in an _ intolerable, 
piercing trill. . . I brush it aside, as I would a 
gnat, I seek her with my eyes . . . and already 
she has become a cloud, and is floating upward 
softly toward the sun; the sun quivers, rocks, 
laughs, stretches out to meet her long golden 
threads, and now those threads have enmeshed 
her, and she melts into them, but I shout at the 
top of my lungs, like a madman: “ That is not 
the sun, that is not the sun, that is an Italian 
spider. Who gave it a passport for Russia? I ‘ll 
show him up for what he is: I saw him stealing 
oranges from other people’s gardens.” . . . Then 
it seems to me that I am walking along a narrow 
mountain path. . . I hurry onward: I must get 
somewhere or other as quickly as possible, some 
unheard-of happiness is awaiting me. Suddenly 
a vast cliff rears itself up in front of me. I seek a 
passage; I go to the right, I go to the left— 
there is no passage! And now behind the cliff a 
voice suddenly rings out: “ Passa, passa quei 
colli.” . . . It is calling me, that voice; it re- 
peats its mournful summons. I fling myself 
about in anguish, I seek even the smallest cleft. 


163 


THREE MEETINGS 


... Alas! the cliff is perpendicular, there is 
granite everywhere. .. . “ Passa quei colli,” wails 
the voice again. My heart aches, and I hurl my 
breast against the smooth stone; I scratch it with 
my nails, in my frenzy. ... A dark passage 
suddenly opens before me. . . Swooning with 
joy, I dash forward. . . “ Nonsense!” some one 
cries to me:—“ thou shalt not pass through.” . . 
I look: Lukyanitch is standing in front of me 
and threatening, and brandishing his arms. . . I 
hastily fumble in my pockets: I want to bribe 
him; but there is nothing in my pockets. .. . 

“ Lukyanitch,”—I say to him,—‘ let me pass; 
I will reward thee afterward.” 

“You are mistaken, signor,” Lukyanitch re- 
plies to me, and his face assumes a strange ex- 
pression:—“ I am not a house-serf; recognise in 
me Don Quixote de La Mancha, the famous wan- 
dering knight; all my life long I have been seek- 
ing my Dulcinea—and I have not been able to 
find her, and I will not tolerate it, that you shall 
find yours.” 

“ Passa quei colli”... . rings out again the 
almost sobbing voice. 

“Stand aside, signor!”—I shout wrathfully, 
and am on the point of precipitating myself for- 
ward ... but the knight’s long spear wounds 
me in the very heart. . . I fall dead, . . I lie 
on my back. . . I cannot move . . . and lo, I 
see that she is coming with a lamp in her hand, 


164 


THREE MEETINGS 


and elevating it with a fine gesture above her 
head, she peers about her in the gloom, and creep- 
ing cautiously up, bends over me. . . 

‘ So this is he, that jester!” she says with a dis- 
dainful laugh.—‘“ This is he who wanted to know 
who I am!” and the hot oil from her lamp drips 
straight upon my wounded heart. . . 

“ Psyche!”’—I exclaim with an effort, and 
awake. 

All night long I slept badly and was afoot be- 
fore daybreak. Hastily dressing and arming 
myself, I wended my way straight to the manor. 
My impatience was so great that the dawn had 
only just begun to flush the sky when I reached 
the familiar gate. Round me the larks were sing- 
ing, the daws were cawing on the birches; but in 
the house everything was still buried in death- 
like matutinal slumber. Even the dog was 
snoring behind the fence. With the anguish 
of expectation, exasperated almost to the 
point of wrath, I paced to and fro on the 
dewy grass, and kept casting incessant glances 
at the low-roofed and ill-favoured little house 
which contained within its walls that mysterious 
being... . 

Suddenly the wicket-gate creaked faintly, 
opened, and Lukyanitch made his appearance 
on the threshold, in some sort of striped kazak 
coat. His bristling, long-drawn face seemed to 
me more surly than ever. Gazing at me not with- 


165 


THREE MEETINGS 


out surprise, he was on the point of shutting the 
wicket again. 

“ My good fellow, my good fellow! ’—I cried 
hastily. 

‘“ What do you want at such an early hour?” — 
he returned slowly and dully. 

“Tell me, please, they say that your mistress 
has arrived? ” 

Lukyanitch made no reply for a while. 

“* She has arrived. . .” 

“ Alone?” 

“ With her sister.” 

“Were there not guests with you last night?” 

eNO: 

And he drew the wicket toward him. 

““ Stay, stay, my dear fellow. ... Do me a 
FAVOUE. (5) «fis 

Lukydnitch coughed and shivered with cold. 

“ But what is it you want? ” 

“Tell me, please, how old is your mistress? ” 

Lukydanitch darted a suspicious glance at 
me. 

“ How old is the mistress? I don’t know. She 
must be over forty.” 

“ Over forty! And how old is her sister?” 

“ Why, she ’s in the neighbourhood of forty.” 

“ You don’t say so! And is she good-looking? ” 

“Who, the sister? ”’ 

“Yes, the. sister.” 

Lukydnitch grinned. 

166 


THREE MEETINGS 


* T don’t know; that ’s as a person fancies. In 
my opinion, she is n’t comely.” 

“How so?” 

‘“ Because—she ’s very ill-favoured. <A_ bit 
puny.” 

“You don’t say so! And has no one except 
them come hither? ”’ 

“No one. Who should come?” 

eBay that cannot bel 5 si or? 

“Eh, master! there ’s no end of talking with 
you, apparently,’—retorted the old man with 
vexation.—‘““ Whew, how cold it is! Good-bye.” 

“Stay, stay .... here ’s something for 
thee. .. .” And I held out to him a quarter of 
a ruble which I had prepared beforehand; but 
my hand came into contact with the swiftly 
banged wicket-gate. The silver coin fell to the 
ground, rolled away, and lay at my feet. 

“Ah, thou old rascal!”—I thought—* Don 
Quixote de La Mancha! Evidently, thou hast re- 
ceived orders to hold thy tongue. . . . But wait, 
thou shalt not trick me.” . . 

I promised myself that I would elucidate the 
matter, at any cost. For about half an hour I 
paced to and fro, without knowing what decision 
to adopt. At last I made up my mind first to 
inquire in the village, precisely who had arrived 
at the manor, and who she was, then to return, 
and, as the saying runs, not desist until the matter 
was cleared up.—And if the Unknown should 


167 


THREE MEETINGS 


come out of the house, I would, at last, see her by 
daylight, near at hand, like a living woman, not 
like a vision. 

It was about a verst to the village, and I imme- 
diately betook myself thither, stepping out lightly 
and alertly: a strange audacity was seething and 
sparkling in my blood; the invigorating fresh- 
ness of the morning excited me after the uneasy 
night.—In the village I learned from two peas- 
ants, who were on their way to their work, every- 
thing which I could learn from them; namely: 
I learned that the manor, together with the village 
which I had entered, was called Mikhailovskoe, 
that it belonged to the widow of a Major, Anna 
Feddorovna Shlykoff; that she had with her her 
sister, an unmarried woman, Pelagéya Feddo- 
rovna Badaeff by name; that both of them were 
advanced in years, were wealthy, hardly ever lived 
at home, were always travelling about, kept no 
one in attendance on them except two female 
domestic serfs and a male cook; that Anna Feé- 
dorovna had recently returned from Moscow with 
no one but her sister. ... This last cireum- 
stance greatly perturbed me: it was impossible 
to assume that the peasants also had been com- 
manded to hold their peace about my Unknown. 
But it was utterly impossible to concede that 
Anna Feddorovna Shlykoff, a widow of five-and- 
forty, and that young, charming woman, whom 
I had seen on the previous evening, were one and 

168 


THREE MEETINGS 


the same person. Pelagéya Feddorovna, judg- 
ing from the description, was not distinguished 
for her beauty either, and, in addition to that, 
at the mere thought that the woman whom I had 
seen at Sorrento could bear the name of Pelagéya, 
and still more of Badéaeff, I shrugged my shoul- 
ders and laughed maliciously. And _ neverthe- 
less, I had beheld her the night before in that 
house. . . . I had beheld her, beheld her with 
my own eyes, I reflected. Irritated, enraged, but 
still more inclined to stand by my intention, I 
would have liked to return at once to the manor 
. ... but glanced at my watch; it was not yet 
six o’clock. I decided to wait a while. Every 
one was still asleep at the farm, in all probability 
. and to prowl about the house at such an hour 
would only serve to arouse unnecessary suspicion; 
and besides, in front of me stretched bushes, and 
beyond them an aspen wood was visible. . . 

I must do myself the justice to say, that, not- 
withstanding the thoughts which were exciting 
me, the noble passion for the hunt had not yet 
grown wholly mute within me; “ perchance,” I 
thought,—“ I shall hit upon a covey,—and that 
will serve to pass away the time.” I entered the 
bushes. But, truth to tell, I walked in a very 
careless way, quite out of consonance with the 
rules of the art: I did not follow my dog con- 
stantly with my eyes, I did not snort over a 
thick bush, in the hope that a red-browed black 


169 


THREE MEETINGS 


snipe would fly thence with a whirr and a crash, 
but kept incessantly looking at my watch, which 
“never serves any purpose whatsoever. And, at 
last, it was going on nine.—“’T is time!” I ex- 
claimed aloud, and was on the point of turning 
back to the manor, when suddenly a huge black 
woodcock actually did begin to flutter out of 
the thick grass a couple of paces from me. I 
fired at the magnificent bird, and wounded it 
under the wing; it almost fell to the ground, but 
recovered itself, started off, fluttering its wings 
swiftly and, diving toward the wood, tried to soar 
above the first aspens on the edge, but its strength 
failed, and it rolled headlong into the thicket. It 
would have been utterly unpardonable to abandon 
such a prize. I strode briskly after it, entered 
the forest, made a sign to Dianka, and a few 
moments later I heard a feeble clucking and 
flapping; it was the unlucky woodcock, strug- 
gling under the paws of my quick-scented hound. 
I picked it up, put it in my game-bag, glanced 
round, and—remained rooted to the spot, as it 
were. . 

The forest which I had entered was very dense 
and wild, so that I had with difficulty made my 
way to the spot where the bird had fallen; but 
at a short distance from me wound a cart-road, 
and along this road were riding on horseback 
my beauty and the man who had overtaken me 
on the night before; I recognised him by his 

170 


THREE MEETINGS 


moustache. They were riding softly, in silence, 
holding each other by the hand; their horses were 
barely putting one foot before the other, lazily 
swaying from side to side and handsomely 
stretching out their long necks. When I had 
recovered from my first alarm . . . precisely 
that, alarm: I can give no other appellation to 
the feeling which suddenly seized upon me. . . . 
I fairly bored into her with my eyes. How beau- 
tiful she was! how enchantingly her graceful 
form moved toward me amid the emerald green! 
Soft shadows, tender reflections glided over her 
—over her long grey habit, over her slender, 
slightly-bent neck, over her faintly-rosy face, over 
her glossy black hair, which escaped luxuriantly 
from under her low-crowned hat. But how shall 
I transmit that expression of utter, passionate 
bliss of a person passionate to the point of 
speechlessness, which breathed forth from her 
features?’ Her head seemed to be bending be- 
neath the burden of it; moist, golden sparks glit- 
tered in her dark eyes, which were half-concealed 
by her eyelashes; they gazed nowhere, those happy 
eyes, and the slender brows drooped over them. 
An irresolute, child-like smile—the smile of pro- 
found happiness, strayed over her lips; it seemed 
as though excess of happiness had wearied and 
even broken her a little, as a flower in full bloom 
sometimes breaks its own stem. Both her hands 
lay powerless: one, in the hand of the man who 


171 


THREE MEETINGS 


was riding by her side, the other on her horse’s 
mane. 

I succeeded in getting a good look at her 
—and at him also. .. . He was a handsome, 
stately man, with an un-Russian face. He was 
gazing at her boldly and merrily, and, so far 
as I was able to observe, was admiring her not 
without secret pride. He was admiring her, the 
villain, and was very well-satisfied with himself, 
and not sufficiently touched, not sufficiently 
moved,— precisely that, moved. .. And, as a mat- 
ter of fact, what man does deserve such devotion, 
what soul, even the most beautiful, is worthy of 
furnishing another soul such happiness? I must 
say, that I was envious of him! .... In the 
meantime, they had both arrived on a level with 
me ... my dog suddenly bounded out into the 
road and began to bark. My Unknown started, 
cast a swift glance around and, catching sight 
of me, dealt her steed a violent blow on the 
neck with her whip. ‘The horse snorted, reared 
up on his hind legs, threw both his hoofs forward 
simultaneously, and dashed off at a gallop... . 
The man immediately gave the spur to his black 
horse, and when I emerged by the road into the 
border of the forest a few moments later, both 
of them were already galloping off into the 
golden distance, across the fields, rising smartly 
and regularly in their saddles . . . and were not 
galloping in the direction of the farm. . . 


172 


THREE MEETINGS 


I gazed. . . . They speedily disappeared be- 
hind a hillock, brilliantly illuminated for the last 
time by the sun against the dark line of the hori- 
zon. I stood, and stood, then returned with slow 
steps to the forest and sat down on the path, 
covering my eyes with my hand.—I have ob- 
served that after meeting strangers, all that is 
necessary is to close the eyes—and their features 
immediately start up before you; any one can 
verify my observation on the street. The more 
familiar the faces, the more difficult is it for them 
to present themselves, the more indefinite is their 
impression; you recall them, but you do not see 
them, . . . . and you can never possibly picture 
to yourself your own face. . . . The very mi- 
nutest separate feature is known to you, but the 
entire image will not constitute itself. So then, 
I sat down, closed my eyes—and immediately 
beheld the Unknown and her companion, and 
their horses, and everything. . . . The man’s 
smiling countenance stood before me with par- 
ticular sharpness and distinctness. I began to 
stare intently at it . . . it became confused, and 
dissolved into a sort of crimson mist, and after 
it, her image also floated away and sank, and 
would not return. 

“ Well, never mind!”—I thought;—“ at all 
events, I have seen them, seen them both clearly. 
. . . It remains for me now to find out their 
names.” Endeavour to find out their names! 


173 


THREE MEETINGS 


What ill-judged, petty curiosity!) But I swear 
that it was not curiosity which had flamed up in 
me. In truth, it simply seemed to me impossible 
not to discover, eventually, who they were, after 
accident had so strangely and so_ persistently 
brought us together. Moreover, my former im- 
patient perplexity no longer existed; it had been 
replaced by a certain confused, sorrowful feeling, 
of which I was somewhat ashamed. . . . I was 
qealous:| +>. 

I did not hasten back to the farm. I must 
confess that I had become ashamed to pry into 
the secrets of others. Moreover, the appearance 
of the fond pair by daylight, in the light of the 
sun, although it was unexpected and, I repeat, 
strange, had not exactly soothed, but chilled me. 
I no longer found anything supernatural, mirac- 
ulous in this occurrence ... . nothing resem- 
bling an impossible dream. . . . 

I began to hunt again with greater assiduity 
than before; but still, there were no genuine rap- 
tures. I hit upon a covey, which engaged my 
attention for an hour and a half. . . The young 
partridges did not respond to my whistle for a 
long time,—probably because I did not whistle 
with sufficient “ objectivity.’”—The sun had al- 
ready risen quite high (my watch indicated twelve 
o'clock), when I directed my steps toward the 
manor. I walked without haste. Yonder, at last, 
the low-roofed little house peeped forth from its 

174 


THREE MEETINGS 


hill. I approached ....and not without 
secret satisfaction beheld Lukydnitch. As of 
yore, he was sitting motionless on the bench in 
front of the wing. The gate was closed—also 
the shutters. 

“Good morning, uncle!””—I shouted to him 
from afar.—*‘‘ Hast thou come out to warm thy- 
self?’ 

Lukyanitch turned his gaunt face toward me 
and silently doffed his cap. 

I went up to him. 

“Good morning, uncle, good morning,’—I 
repeated, wishing to encourage him.—“‘ Why,” 
—I added, unexpectedly descrying my quar- 
terruble on the ground,—“ didst not thou see 
1?” 

And I pointed out to him the silver circle, half 
peeping from beneath the short grass. 

“Yes, I saw it.” 

“Then why didst thou not Ae it up?” 

“ Because it was n’t my money, so I did n’t 
pick it up.” 

“What a fellow thou art, brother! ’’—I re- 
turned, not without embarrassment, and picking 
up the coin, I offered it to him again.—*“ Take , 
it, take it, for tea.” 

“ Much obliged,’ —Lukyanitch answered me, 
with a composed smile.—‘ It is n’t necessary; I ‘Il 
manage to pull through without it. Much 
obliged.” 


175 


THREE MEETINGS 


“ But I am ready to give you still more, with 
pleasure! ”—I replied in confusion. 

“What for? Please don’t disturb yourself — 
much obliged for your good-will, but we still have 
a crust of bread. And perhaps we sha’n’t eat 
that up—that ’s as it may happen.” 

And he rose, and put out his hand to the wicket- 
gate. 

“Stay, stay, old man,”’—I began, almost in 
desperation;—“ how uncommunicative thou art 
to-day, really. . . . Tell me, at least, has your 
mistress risen yet?” 

“ She has.” 

‘And. 4's isishe at home?” 

“No, she ’s not at home.” 

“ Has she gone off on a visit, pray?” 

“No, sir; she has gone to Moscow.” 

“To Moscow! How is that? Why, she was 
here this morning!” 

‘““ She was.” 

‘And she passed the night here?” 

“ She did.” 

‘And she came hither recently?” 

WN es.?7 

“ What next, my good man?” 

“Why, this: it must be about an hour since 
she deigned to start back to Moscow.” 

“To Moscow!” 

I stared in petrification at Lukyanitch; I had 
not expected this, I admit. 


176 


THREE MEETINGS 


Lukyanitch stared at me. . . . A crafty, senile 
smile distended his withered lips and almost 
beamed in his melancholy eyes. 

“And did she go away with her sister? ””—I 
said at last. 

ves.” 

“So that now there is no one in the house? ” 

PeNofone:yjsta:3Y 

“This old man is deceiving me,’—flashed 
through my head.—“ ’T is not without cause that 
he is grinning so craftily.— Listen, Lukyanitch,” 
—I said aloud;—“ dost wish to do me one fa- 
vour?” 

“ What is it you wish? ’—he enunciated slowly, 
evidently beginning to feel annoyed by my ques- 
tions. 

“Thou sayest that there is no one in the house; 
canst thou show it to me? I should be very grate- 
ful to thee.” 

“That is, you want to inspect the rooms? % 

“Yes, the rooms.” 

Lukydnitch remained silent for a space. 
“Very well,’—he said at last.—“ Pray, en- 
en i 
And bending down, he stepped across the 
threshold of the wicket-gate. I followed him. 
After traversing a tiny courtyard, we ascended 
the tottering steps of the porch. The old man gave 
the door a push; there was no lock on it: a cord 
with a knot stuck out through the key-hole. . . . 


we 


THREE MEETINGS 


We entered the house. It consisted in all of five or 
six low-ceiled rooms, and, so far as I could make 
out in the faint light, which streamed sparsely 
through the rifts in the shutters, the furniture in 
these rooms was extremely plain and decrepit. 
In one of them (namely, in the one which opened 
on the garden) stood a small, antiquated piano. 
. . . I raised its warped lid and struck the keys: 
a shrill, hissing sound rang out and died feebly 
away, as though complaining of my audacity. 
It was impossible to discern from anything that 
people had recently left the house; it had a dead 
and stifling sort of smell—the odour of an unin- 
habited dwelling; here and there, indeed, a dis- 
carded paper gave one to understand, by its 
whiteness, that it had been dropped there recently. 
I picked up one such bit of paper; it proved to be 
a scrap of a letter; on one side in a dashing 
feminine handwriting were scrawled the words 
“se taire?”’ on the other I made out the word 
“bonheur.” . . . Ona small round table near the 
window stood a nosegay of half-faded flowers 
in a glass, and a green, rumpled ribbon was lying 
there also . . . . I took that ribbon as a souvenir. 
—Lukydanitch opened a narrow door, pasted over 
with wall-paper. 

“ Here,’ —said he, extending his hand:—“ this 
here is the bedroom, and yonder, beyond it, is 
the room for the maids, and there are no other 
chamibers:v3 A ff 

178 


THREE MEETINGS 


We returned by way of the corridor.—‘‘ And 
what room is that yonder?”’—I asked, pointing 
at a broad, white door with a lock. 

“ That? ”’—Lukyanitch answered me, in a dull 
voice.—“ That ’s nothing.” 

“How so?” 


“Because. ... ’I is a store-room.. .” And 
he started to go into the anteroom. 
“A store-room? Cannot I look at it?” ... 


“What makes you want to do that, master, 
really? !”’—replied Lukyanitch with displeasure. 
—‘ What is there for you to look at? Chests, 
old crockery .. . ’t is a store-room, and nothing 
more...) ./!.” 

“ All the same, show it to me, please, old man,” 
—J] said, although I was inwardly ashamed of my 
indecent persistence.—‘‘ I should like, you see 
. . . . I should like to have just such a house my- 
self at home, in my village... .” 

I was ashamed: I could not complete the sen- 
tence I had begun. 

Lukyanitch stood with his grey head bent on 
his breast, and stared at me askance in a strange 
sort of way. 

** Show it,” —I said. 

“Well, as you like,’—he replied at last, got 
the key, and reluctantly opened the door. 

I glanced into the store-room. ‘There really 
was nothing noteworthy about it. On the walls 
hung old portraits with gloomy, almost black 


179 


THREE MEETINGS 


countenances, and vicious eyes. The floor was 
strewn with all sorts of rubbish. 

“ Well, have you seen all you want? ”’—asked 
Lukyanitch, gruffly. 

“Yes; thanks! ”—TI hastily replied. 

He slammed to the door. I went out into the 
anteroom, and from the anteroom into the court- 
yard. 

Lukyanitch escorted me, muttering: “ Good- 
bye, sir!” and went off to his own wing. 

“ But who was the lady visitor at your house 
last night? ”’—I called after him:—“ I met her 
this morning in the grove.” 

I had hoped to daze him with my sudden ques- 
tion, to evoke a thoughtless answer. But the old 
man merely laughed dully, and slammed the door 
behind him when he went in. 

I retraced my steps to Glinnoe. I felt awk- 
ward, like a boy who has been put to shame. 

“No,” —I said to myself :—“ evidently, I shall 
not obtain a solution to this puzzle. I ‘Il give it 
up! I will think no more of all this.” 

An hour later, I set out on my homeward drive, 
enraged and irritated. 

A week elapsed. Try as I might to banish 
from me the memory of the Unknown, of her 
companion, of my meetings with them,—it kept 
constantly returning, and besieged me with all 
the importunate persistence of an after-dinner 
fly. . . . Lukydnitch, with his mysterious looks 

180 


THREE MEETINGS 


and reserved speeches, with his coldly-mournful 
smile, also recurred incessantly to my memory. 
The house itself, when I thought of it,—that 
house itself gazed at me cunningly and stupidly 
through its half-closed shutters, and seemed to 
be jeering at me, as though it were saying to me: 
“And all the same thou shalt not find out any- 
thing!” At last I could endure it no longer, and 
one fine day I drove to Glinnoe, and from Glin- 
noe set out on foot .... whither? The reader 
can easily divine. 

I must confess that, as I approached the mys- 
terious manor, I felt a decidedly violent agitation. 
The exterior of the house had not undergone the 
slightest change: the same closed windows, the 
same melancholy and desolate aspect; only, on 
the bench, in front of the wing, instead of old 
Lukydanitch, sat some young house-serf or other, 
of twenty, in a long nankeen kaftan and a red 
shirt. He was sitting with his curly head resting 
on his palm, and dozing, swaying to and fro from 
time to time, and quivering. 

“Good morning, brother!”’—TI said in a loud 
voice. 

He immediately sprang to his feet and stared 
at me with widely-opened, panic-stricken eyes. 

“Good morning, brother!”--I repeated:— 
“ And where is the old man?” 

“What old man?”—said the young fellow, 
slowly. 

181 


THREE MEETINGS 


* Lukyanitch.” 

“Ah, Lukyanitch!”—He darted a glance 
aside.—“* Do you want Lukyanitch?” 

“Yes, Ido. Is he at home?” 

“ N-no,”—enunciated the young fellow, bro- 
kenly,—“ he, you know .. . how shall I... 
telly. 2 ja Yow 4. pabout . 01s’ «2 hhab}- fiers 

Mls he aller 

TNO 

“What then? ” 

“Why, he isn’t here at all.” 

“Why not?” 

“ Because.,| ‘Something ....): : unpleasant .ieys 
happened to him.” 

“Is he dead? ”’—I inquired with surprise. 

“ He strangled himself.” 

“ Strangled himself!””—I exclaimed in af- 
fright, and clasped my hands. 

We both gazed in each other’s eyes in silence. 

“ How long ago? ”—I said at last. 

“Why, to-day is the fifth day since. They 
buried him yesterday.” 

“ But why did he strangle himself?” 

“The Lord knows. He was a freeman, on 
wages; he did not know want, the masters petted 
him as though he were a relation. For we have 
such good masters—may God give them health! 
I simply can’t understand what came over him. 
Evidently, the Evil One entrapped him.” 

“ But how did he do it?” 


182 


THREE MEETINGS 


“Why, so. He took and strangled himself.” 

“ And nothing of the sort had been previously 
noticed in him?” 

“How shall I tell you. . . . There was no- 
thing . ... particular. He was always a very 
melancholy man. He used to groan, and groan. 
‘I ’m so bored,’ he would say. Well, and then 
there was his age. Of late, he really did begin 
to meditate something. He used to come to us in 
the village; for I ’m his nephew.—‘ Well, Vasya, 
my lad,’ he would say, * prithee, brother, come and 
spend the night with me! ’—‘ What for, uncle?’ 
—‘ Why, because I’m frightened, somehow; 
*t is tiresome alone.’ Well, and so I'd go to him. 
He would come out into the courtyard and stare 
and stare so at the house, and shake and shake 
his head, and how he would sigh! . . . Just be- 
fore that night, that is to say, the one on which 
he put an end to his life, he came to us again, 
and invited me. Well, and so I went. When 
we reached his wing, he sat for a while on the 
bench; then he rose, and went out. I wait, and 
“he ’s rather long in coming back ’—says I, and 
went out into the courtyard, and shouted, * Un- 
cle! hey, uncle!’ My uncle did not call back. 
Thinks I: ‘ Whither can he have gone? surely, not 
into the house?’ and I went into the house. 
Twilight was already drawing on. And as I was 
passing the store-room, I heard something 
scratching there, behind the door; so I took and 


183 


THREE MEETINGS 


opened the door. Behold, there he sat doubled up 
under the window. 

“* What art thou doing there, uncle?’ says I. 
But he turns round, and how he shouts at me, and 
his eyes are so keen, so keen, they fairly blaze, 
like a cat’s. 

“* What dost thou want? Dost not se—I am 
shaving myself.’ And his voice was so hoarse. 
My hair suddenly rose upright, and I don’t know 
why I got frightened . . . evidently, about that 
time the devils had already assailed him. 

“What, in the dark? ’—says I, and my knees 
fairly shook. 

“““ Come,’ says he, ‘it ’s all right, begone! ’ 

““T went, and he came out of the store-room 
and locked the door. So we went back to the 
wing, and the terror immediately left me. 

“* What wast thou doing in the store-room, 
uncle?’ says I.—He was fairly frightened. 

““Hold thy tongue!’ says he; ‘hold thy 
tongue!’ and he crawled up on the oven-bench. 

“* Well, thinks I to myself,—‘ ’t will be better 
for me not to speak to him; he surely must be 
feeling ill to-day.’ So I went and lay down on 
the oven-bench myself, too. And a night-light 
was burning in a corner. So, I am lying there, 
and just dozing, you know . . . when suddenly 
I hear the door creaking softly . . . and it opens 
—so, a little. And my uncle was lying with his 
back to the door, and, as you may remember, 

184 


THREE MEETINGS 


he was always a little hard of hearing. But this 
_ time he sprang up suddenly. . . 

“* Who’s calling me, hey? who is it? hast come 
for me, for me?!’ and out he ran into the yard 
without his hat... . 

“T thought: “What’s the matter with him?’ 
and, sinful man that I am, I fell asleep imme- 
diately. The next morning I woke up.... 
and Lukyanitch was not there. 

‘“* T went out of doors and began to call him—he 
was nowhere. I asked the watchman: 

“* Has n’t my uncle come out?’ says I. 

i) No; ssaysihe, “1 have n’t, seen him.;;. 

“ “Has n’t something happened to him, bro- 
phiet: “nu. 2 Says: D.;..,.. 

“* Oi!’ .... We were both fairly frightened. 

“ “Come, Feodésyeitch,’ says I, ‘ come on,’ says 
I,—‘ let ’s see whether he is n’t in the house.’ 

“““ Come on,’—says he, ‘ Vasily Timofyéitch! ’ 
but he himself was as white as clay. 

“We entered the house. . . I was about to 
pass the store-room, but I glanced and the pad- 
lock was hanging open on the hasp, and I pushed 
the door, but the door was fastened inside... . 
Feodésyeitch immediately ran round, and peeped 
in at the window. 

““WVasily Timofyéitch!’ he cries;—‘his legs 
are hanging, his legs . . . ’ 

“Tran to the window. And they were his legs, 
Lukyanitch’s legs. And he had hanged himself 


185 


THREE MEETINGS 


in the middle of the room.— Well, we sent for the 
judge. . . . They took him down from the rope; 
the rope was tied with twelve knots.” 

“ Well, what did the court say?” 

‘“ What did the court say? Nothing. They 
pondered and pondered what the cause might 
be. ‘There was no cause. And so they decided 
that he must have been out of his mind. His head 
had been aching of late, he had been complaining 
very frequently of his head. . . .” 

I chatted for about half an hour longer with the 
young fellow, and went away, at last, completely 
disconcerted. I must confess that I could not 
look at that rickety house without a secret, super- 
stitious terror. . . . A month later I quitted my 
country-seat, and little by little all these horrors, 
these mysterious encounters, vanished from my 
mind. 


II 


THREE years passed. The greater part of that 
time I spent in Petersburg and abroad; and even 
when I did run down to my place in the country, 
it was only for a few days at a time, so that I 
never chanced to be in Glinnoe or in Mikhailov- 
skoe on a single occasion. Nowhere had I seen 
my beauty nor the man. One day, toward the 
end of the third year, in Moscow, I chanced to 
meet Madame Shlykoff and her sister, Pelagéya 
186 


THREE MEETINGS 


Badaeff—that same Pelagéya whom I, sinful 
man that I am, had hitherto regarded as a myth- 
ical being—at an evening gathering in the house 
of one of my acquaintances. Neither of the 
ladies was any longer young, and both possessed 
pleasing exteriors; their conversation was char- 
acterised by wit and mirth: they had travelled 
a great deal, and travelled with profit; easy gaiety 
was observable in their manners. But they and 
my acquaintance had positively nothing in com- 
mon. I was presented to them. Madame Shly- 
koff and I dropped into conversation (her sister 
was being entertained by a passing geologist). 
I informed her that I had the pleasure of being 
her neighbour in *** county. 

“Ah! I really do possess a small estate there,” 
—she remarked,—“‘ near Glinnoe.” 

“ Exactly, exactly,”—I returned:—“ I know 
your Mikhailovskoe. Do you ever go thither?” 

“1?—Rarely.” 

“Were you there three years ago?”’ 

“ Stay! I think Iwas. Yes, I was, that is true.” 

“With your sister, or alone?” 

She darted a glance at me. 

“With my sister. We spent about a week 
there. On business, you know. However, we 
saw no one.” 

“H’m. ... J think there are very few neigh- 
bours there.” 

“Yes, very few. I’m not fond of neighbours.” 


187 


THREE MEETINGS 


“ Tell me,’”—I began;—“ I believe you had a 
catastrophe there that same year. lLukya- 
niteh [, orbs 

Madame Shlykoff’s eyes immediately filled 
with tears. 

“And did you know him? ”’—she said with vi- 
vacity.—“‘ Such a misfortune! He was a very 
fine, good old man . . . and just fancy, without 
any cause, you know... .” 

Madame Shlykoff’s sister approached us. She 
was, in all probability, beginning to be bored by 
the learned disquisitions of the geologist about 
the formation of the banks of the Volga. 

“ Just fancy, Pauline,’—began my compan- 
ion;—“ monsieur knew Lukyanitch.” 

“Really? Poor old man!” 

‘““T hunted more than once in the environs of 
Mikhailovskoe at that period, when you were 
there three years ago,’—I remarked. 

“1?” returned Pelagéya, in some astonish- 
ment. 

“Well, yes, of course! ’’—hastily imterposed 
her sister; “is it possible that thou dost not re- 
callit?”’ 

And she looked her intently in the eye. 

“ Akh, yes, yes... that is true! ’’—replied 
Pelagéya, suddenly. 

“ Ehe—he!” I thought: “I don’t believe you 
were in Mikhailovskoe, my dear.” 

“Will not you sing us something, Pelagéya 

188 


THREE MEETINGS 


Fedédorovna?”’—suddenly began a tall young 
man, with a crest of fair hair and turbidly-sweet 
little eyes. 

“ Really, I don’t know,’—said Miss Badaeff. | 

“And do you sing?”—I exclaimed with vi- 
vacity, springing up briskly from my seat. “ For 
heaven’s sake .... akh, for heaven’s sake, do 
sing us something.” 

“ But what shall I sing to you?” 

“Don’t you know,”—I began, using my ut- 
most endeavours to impart to my face an indif- 
ferent and easy expression,—“an Italian song 
... it begins this way: ‘ Passa quei colli’ 2?” 

“Yes,” replied Pelagéya with perfect inno- 
cence. “Do you want me to sing that? Very 
well.” 

And she seated herself at the piano. I, like 
Hamlet, riveted my eyes on Madame Shlykoff. 
It seemed to me that at the first note she gave a 
slight start; but she sat quietly to the end. Miss 
Badaeff sang quite well. ‘The song ended, the 
customary plaudits resounded. ‘They began to 
urge her to sing something else; but the two sis- 
ters exchanged glances, and a few minutes later 
they took their departure. As they left the room 
I overheard the word “ importun.” 

“T deserved it!” I thought—and did not meet 
them again. 

Still another year elapsed. I transferred my 
residence to Petersburg. Winter arrived; the 


189 


THREE MEETINGS 


masquerades began. One day, as I emerged at 
eleven o'clock at night from the house of a friend, 
I felt myself in such a gloomy frame of mind that 
I decided to betake myself to the masquerade in 
the Assembly of the Nobility.’ For a long time 
I roamed about among the columns and past the 
mirrors with a discreetly-fatalistic expression on 
my countenance—with that expression which, so 
far as I have observed, makes its appearance in 
such cases on the faces of the most well-bred per- 
sons—why, the Lord only knows. For a long 
time I roamed about, now and then parrying with 
a jest the advances of divers shrill dominoes with 
suspicious lace and soiled gloves, and still more 
rarely addressing them. For a long time I sur- 
rendered my ears to the blare of the trumpets and 
the whining of the violins; at last, being pretty 
well bored, I was on the point of going home 
....and.... andremained. I caught sight 
of a woman in a black domino, leaning against a 
column,—and no sooner had I caught sight of her 
than I stopped short, stepped up to her, and... 
will the reader believe me? .. . . immediately 
recognised in her my Unknown. How I recog- 
nised her: whether by the glance which she ab- 
stractedly cast upon me through the oblong aper- 
ture in her mask, or by the wonderful outlines of 
her shoulders and arms, or by the peculiarly femi- 
nine stateliness of her whole form, or, in conclu- 
1 The Nobles’ Club. —Transtator. 
190 


THREE MEETINGS 


sion, by some secret voice which suddenly spoke in 
me,—I cannot say ... . only, recognise her I 
did. With a quiver in my heart, I walked past her 
several times. She did not stir; in her attitude 
there was something so hopelessly sorrowful that, 
as I gazed at her, I involuntarily recalled two 
lines of a Spanish romance: 


Soy un cuadro de tristeza, 
Arrimado a la pared.! 


I stepped behind the column against which she 
was leaning, and bending my head down to her 
very ear, enunciated softly: 

Passa que: colli”... 

She began to tremble all over, and turned 
swiftly round to me. Our eyes met at very 
short range, and I was able to observe how fright 
had dilated her pupils. Feebly extending one 
hand in perplexity, she gazed at me. 

“On May 6, 184*, in Sorrento, at ten o’clock in 
the evening, in della Croce Street,” —I said in a 
deliberate voice, without taking my eyes from her; 
“afterward, in Russia, in the *** Government, 
in the hamlet of Mikhailovskoe, on June 22, 
Lo 

I said all this in French. She recoiled a little, 
scanned me from head to foot with a look of 


1**T am a picture of sorrow, 
Leaning against the wall.” 


191 


THREE MEETINGS 


amazement, and whispering, “ Venez, 
left the room. I followed her. 

We walked on in silence. It is beyond my 
power to express what I felt as I walked side by 
side with her. It was as though a very beautiful 
dream had suddenly become reality . . . as though 
the statue of Galatea had descended as a living 
woman from its pedestal in the sight of the 


JI 


swiftly 


swooning Pygmalion. . .. I could not believe 
it, I could hardly breathe. 
We traversed several rooms. . . . At last, in 


one of them, she paused in front of a small divan 
near the window, and seated herself. I sat down 
beside her. 

She slowly turned her head toward me, and 
looked intently at me. 

“Do you . . . . do you come from him?” she 
said. 

Her voice was weak and unsteady. . . 

Her question somewhat disconcerted me. 

“No... . not from him,”—I replied halt- 
ingly. 

“Do you know him?” 

“ Yes,” —TI replied, with mysterious solemnity. 
I wanted to keep up my réle.—“ Yes, I know 
him.” 

She looked distrustfully at me, started to say 
something, and dropped her eyes. 

“You were waiting for him in Sorrento,’—I 
went on;—*“ you met him at Mikhaiflovskoe, you 
rode on horseback with him. . - .” 

10° 


THREE MEETINGS 


“How could you .. . .” she began. 

alknow-.: .<)dvknow ally: pacer 

“Your face seems familiar to me, somehow,” — 
she continued:—“ but no . “ 

“No, I am a stranger to you.” 

“Then what is it that you want? ” 

“I know that also,’ —I persisted. 

I understood very well that I must take advan- 
tage of the excellent beginning to go further, 
that my repetitions of “I know all, I know,” 
were becoming ridiculous—but my agitation was 
so great, that unexpected meeting had thrown me 
into such confusion, I had lost my self-control to 
such a degree that I positively was unable to say 
anything else. Moreover, I really knew nothing 
more. I felt conscious that I was talking non- 
sense, felt conscious that, from the mysterious, 
omniscient being which I must at first appear to 
her to be, I should soon be converted into a sort 
of grinning fool... . but there was no help 
Lor, it- 

“Yes, I know all,’ —I muttered once more. 

She darted a glance at me, rose quickly to her 
feet, and was on the point of departing. 

But this was too cruel. I seized her hand. 

“For God’s sake,’—I began,—“ sit down, 
listen to me. Y 

She reflected, and seated herself. 

“T just told you,’—I went on fervently,— 
“that I knew everything—that is nonsense. I 
know nothing; I do not know either who you 


193 


THREE MEETINGS 


are, or who he is, and if I have been able to sur- 
prise you by what I said to you a while ago by 
the column, you must ascribe that to chance alone, 
to a strange, incomprehensible chance, which, as 
though in derision, has brought me in contact with 
you twice, and almost in identically the same way 
on both occasions, and has made me the involun- 
tary witness of that which, perhaps, you would 
like to keep secret. . . .” 

And thereupon, without the slightest cireumlo- 
cution, I related to her everything: my meet- 
ings with her in Sorrento, in Russia, my futile 
inquiries in Mikhailovskoe, even my conversa- 
tion in Moscow with Madame Shlykoff and her 
sister. 

“Now you know everything,’—I went on, 
when [ had finished my story.—“ I will not under- 
take to describe to you what an overwhelming im- 
pression you made on me: to see you and not 
to be bewitched by you is impossible. On the 
other hand, there is no need for me to tell you 
what the nature of that impression was. Re- 
member under what conditions I beheld you both 
times. . . . Believe me, I am not fond of indulg- 
ing in senseless hopes, but you must understand 
also that inexpressible agitation which has seized 
upon me to-day, and you must pardon the awk- 
ward artifice to which I decided to have recourse 
in order to attract your attention, if only for a 
moment toe 


194 


THREE MEETINGS 


She listened to my confused explanations with- 


- out raising her head. 


“ What do you want of me? ’’—she said at last. 

Sl, 4, 4 Lei want, nothing... ..1, am, happy 
as I am. . . . I have too much respect for such 
secrets.” 

“Really? But, up to this point, apparently 
. .-- However,’ —she went on,—“ I will not re- 
proach you. Any man would have done the same 
in your place. Moreover, chance really has 
brought us together so persistently . . . that 
would seem to give you a certain right to frank- 
ness on my part. Listen: I am not one of those 
uncomprehended and unhappy women who go 
to masquerades for the sake of chattering to the 
first man they meet about their sufferings, who 
require hearts filled with sympathy. . .. I re- 
quire sympathy from no one; my own heart is 
dead, and I have come hither in order to bury 
it definitively.” 

She raised a handkerchief to her lips. 

“ T hope ’—she went on with a certain amount 
of effort—‘“ that you do not take my words for 
the ordinary effusions of a masquerade. You 
must understand that I am in no mood for 
che ona” 

And, in truth, there was something terrible in 
her voice, despite all the softness of its tones. 

“T am a Russian,” —she said in Russian;—up 
to that point she had expressed herself in the 

195 


THREE MEETINGS 


French language:—“ although I have lived little 
in Russia. . . . It is not necessary for me to 
know your name. Anna Feddorovna is an old 
friend of mine; I really did go to Mikhailovskoe 
under the name of her sister. . . It was impos- 
sible at that time for me to meet him openly. . . 
And even without that, rumours had begun to 


circulate . . . at that time, obstacles still existed 
—he was not free. . . Those obstacles have dis- 
appeared . . . but he whose name should become 


mine, he with whom you saw me, has abandoned 
me.” 

She made a gesture with her hand, and paused 
awhile: "142 

“You really do not know him? You have not 
met him?” 

“Not once.” 

“He has spent almost all this time abroad. But 
he is here now. . . . That is my whole history,” 
—she added;—“ you see, there is nothing myste- 
rious about it, nothing peculiar.” 

“And Sorrento? ’—I timidly interposed. 

“TI made his acquaintance in Sorrento,’ —she 
answered slowly, becoming pensive. 

Both of us held our peace. <A strange dis- 
composure took possession of me. I was sitting 
beside her, beside that woman whose image had 
so often flitted through my dreams, had so tor- 
turingly agitated and irritated me,—I was sit- 
ting beside her and felt a cold and a weight at 

196 


THREE MEETINGS 


my heart. I knew that nothing would come of 
that meeting, that between her and me there was 
a gulf, that when we parted we should part for- 
ever. With her head bowed forward and both 
hands lying in her lap, she sat there indifferent 
and careless. I know that carelessness of incur- 
able grief, I know that indifference of irrecover- 
able happiness! ‘The masks strolled past us in 
couples; the sounds of the “monotonous and 
senseless” waltz now reverberated dully in the 
distance, now were wafted by in sharp gusts; the 
merry ball-music agitated me heavily and mourn- 
fully. “ Can it be,’”—I thought,—“ that this wo- 
man is the same who appeared to me once on a 
time in the window of that little country house 
far away, in all the splendour of triumphant 
beauty? ....’ And yet, time seemed not to 
have touched her. The lower part of her face, un- 
concealed by the lace of her mask, was of almost 
childish delicacy; but a chill emanated from her, 
as from a statue. . . . Galatea had returned to 
her pedestal, and would descend from it no more. 

Suddenly she drew herself up, darted a glance 
into the next room, and rose. 

“Give me your arm,’ —she said to me. “ Let us 
go away quickly, quickly.” 

We returned to the ball-room. She walked so 
fast that I could barely keep up with her. She 
came to a standstill beside one of the columns. 

“ Let us wait here,’—she whispered. 


197 


THREE MEETINGS 


“ Are you looking for any one?””—I began.... 

But she paid no heed to me: her eager gaze was 
fixed upon the crowd. Languidly and menacingly 
did her great black eyes look forth from beneath 
the black velvet. 

I turned in the direction of her gaze and un- 
derstood everything. Along the corridor formed 
by the row of columns and the wall, he was walk- 
ing, that man whom I had met with her in the for- 
est. I recognised him instantly: he had hardly 
changed at all. His golden-brown moustache 
curled as handsomely as ever, his brown eyes 
beamed with the same calm and self-confident 
cheerfulness as of yore. He was walking without 
haste, and, lightly bending his slender figure, was 
narrating something to a woman in a domino, 
whose arm was linked in his. As he came on a 
level with us, he suddenly raised his head, looked 
first at me, then at the woman with whom I was 
standing, and probably recognised her eyes, for 
his eyebrows quivered slightly,—he screwed up 
his eyes, and a barely perceptible, but intolerably 
insolent smile hovered over his lips. He bent 
down to his companion, and whispered a couple 
of words in her ear; she immediately glanced 
round, her blue eyes hastily scanned us both, and 
with a soft laugh she menaced him with her little 
hand. He slightly shrugged one shoulder, she 
nestled up to him coquettishly. . . . 

I turned to my Unknown. She was gazing 


198 


THREE MEETINGS 


after the receding pair, and suddenly, tearing her 
arm from mine, she rushed toward the door. I 
was about to dash after her; but turning round, 
she gave me such a look that I made her a pro- 
found bow, and remained where I was. I under- 
stood that to pursue her would be both rude and 
stupid. 

“Tell me, please, my dear fellow,”—I said, 
half an hour later, to one of my friends—the 
living directory of Petersburg:—‘ who is that 
tall, handsome gentleman with a moustache?” 

“That? . . . that is some foreigner or other, 
a rather enigmatic individual, who very rarely 
makes his appearance on our horizon. Why do 
you ask?” 

s@h; because!” ... . 

I returned home. Since that time I have never 
met my Unknown anywhere. Had I known the 
name of the man whom she loved, I might, prob- 
ably, have found out, eventually, who she was, 
but I myself did not desire that. I have said 
above that that woman appeared to me like a 
dream-vision—and like a dream-vision she went 
past and vanished forever. 


199 


< 





MUMU 
(1852) 








MUMU 


N one of the remote streets of Moscow, in 4 
grey house with white pillars, an entresol, and 

a crooked balcony, dwelt in former days a well- 
born lady, a widow, surrounded by numerous do- 
mestics. Her sons were in the service in Peters- 
burg, her daughters were married; she rarely 
went out into society, and was living out the last 
years of a miserly and tedious old age in solitude. 
Her day, cheerless and stormy, was long since 
over; but her evening also was blacker than night. 
Among the ranks of her menials, the most re- 
markable person was the yard-porter, Gerasim, 
a man six feet five inches in height, built like an 
epic hero, and a deaf-mute from his birth. His 
mistress had taken him from the village, where 
he lived alone, in a tiny cottage, apart from his 
brethren, and was considered the most punctual 
of the taxable serfs. Endowed with remarkable 
strength, he did the work of four persons. Mat- 
ters made progress in his hands, and it was a 
cheerful sight to watch him when he ploughed 
and, applying his huge hands to the primitive 
plough, seemed to be carving open the elastic 

203 


MUMU 


bosom of the earth alone, without the aid of 
his little nag; or about St. Peter’s Day‘ wield- 
ing the scythe so shatteringly that he might 
even have hewn off a young birch-wood from its 
roots; or threshing briskly and unremittingly 
with a chain seven feet in length, while the firm, 
oblong muscles on his shoulders rose and fell like 
levers. His uninterrupted muteness imparted to 
his indefatigable labour a grave solemnity. He 
was a splendid peasant, and had it not been for 
his infirmity, any maiden would willingly have 
married him. . . . But Gerdsim was brought to 
Moscow, boots were bought for him, a broom and 
a shovel were put into his hand, and he was ap- 
pointed to be the yard-porter. 

At first he felt a violent dislike for his new 
life. From his childhood he had been accustomed 
to field-labour, to country life. Set apart by his 
infirmity from communion with his fellow-men, 
he had grown up dumb and mighty, as a tree 
grows on fruitful soil. . . . Transported to the 
town, he did not understand what was happening 
to him;—he felt bored and puzzled, as a healthy 
young bull is puzzled when he has just been taken 
from the pasture, where the grass grew up to his 
belly,—when he has been taken, and placed in a 
railway-wagon,—and, lo, with his robust body en- 
veloped now with smoke and sparks, again with 
billows of steam, he is drawn headlong onward, 

1 June 29 (O. S.)—July 13 (N. S.).—Transiator. 
204 








MUMU 


drawn with rumble and squeaking, and whither 
—God only knows! Gerdsim’s occupations in his 
new employment seemed to him a mere farce 
after his onerous labours as a peasant; in half an 
hour he had finished everything, and he was 
again standing in the middle of the courtyard and 
staring, open-mouthed, at all the passers-by, as 
though desirous of obtaining from them the so- 
lution of his enigmatic situation; or he would 
suddenly go off to some corner and, flinging his 
broom or his shovel far from him, would throw 
himself on the ground face downward, and lie 
motionless on his breast for whole hours at a time, 
like a captured wild beast. 

But man grows accustomed to everything, and 
Gerdsim got used, at last, to town life! He 
had not much to do; his entire duty consisted in 
keeping the courtyard clean, fetching a cask of 
water twice a day, hauling and chopping up 
wood for the kitchen and house,’ and in not ad- 
mitting strangers, and keeping watch at night. 
And it must be said that he discharged his duty 
with zeal; not a chip was ever strewn about his 
courtyard, nor any dirt; if in muddy weather 
the broken-winded nag for hauling water and the 
barrel entrusted to his care got stranded any- 
where, all he had to do was to apply his shoulder, 


1 Formerly all Moscow houses were obliged to get their water in 
barrels on wheels from the river or from public fountains. Birch- 
wood is still used for cooking and heating.—Tr» ws *~or. 


205 


MUMU 


—and not only the cart, but the horse also, would 
be pried from the spot. If he undertook to chop 
wood, his axe would ring like glass, and splinters 
and billets would fly in every direction; and as 
for strangers—after he had, one night, caught 
two thieves, and had banged their heads together, 
and mauled them so that there was no necessity 
for taking them to the police-station afterward, 
every one in the neighbourhood began to respect 
him greatly, and even by day, passers-by who were 
not in the least rascals, but simply strangers to 
him, at the sight of the ominous yard-porter, 
would brandish their arms as though in self-de- 
fence, and shout at him as though he were able 
to hear their cries. 

With all the other domestics Gerdsim sustained 
relations which were not exactly friendly,—they 
were afraid of him,—but gentle; he regarded 
them as members of the family. They expressed 
their meaning to him by signs, and he under- 
stood them, accurately executed all orders, but 
knew his own rights also, and no one dared to 
take his seat at table. On the whole, Gerasim 
was of stern and serious disposition, and was fond 
of orderliness in all things; even the cocks did not 
venture to fight in his presence—but if they did, 
woe be to them! if he caught sight of them, he 
would instantly seize them by the legs, whirl 
them round like a wheel half a score of times in the 
air, and hurl them in opposite directions. There 

206 


MUMU 


were geese also in his lady mistress’s courtyard, 
but a goose, as every one knows, is a serious and 
sensible bird; Gerasim felt respect for them, 
tended them, and fed them; he himself bore a 
resemblance to a stately gander. 

He was allotted a tiny chamber over the 
kitchen; he arranged it himself after his own 
taste, constructed a bed of oaken planks on four 
blocks—truly a bed fit for an epic hero; a hun- 
dred puds* might have been loaded upon it,— 
it would not have given way. Under the bed 
was a stout chest; in one corner stood a small table 
of the same sturdy quality, and beside the table 
a three-legged chair, and so firm and squatty that 
Gerasim himself would pick it up, drop it, and 
grin. This little den was fastened with a pad- 
lock which suggested a kaldtch” in shape, only 
black; Gerasim always carried the key to this lock 
with him, in his belt. He was not fond of having 
people come into his room. 

In this manner a year passed, at the end of 
which a small incident happened to Gerasim. 

The old gentlewoman with whom he lived as 
yard-porter in all things followed the ancient 
customs, and kept a numerous train of domestics; 
she had in her house not only laundresses, seam- 
stresses, carpenters, tailors, and dressmakers, but 


1A pud is about thirty-six pounds, English. —Transraror. 
2A peculiarly shaped and delicious wheaten roll, which is made 
particularly well in Moscow. —TRransiator. 


207 


MUMU 


also one saddler, who set up to be a veterinary and 
a medical man for the servants as well (there 
was a house-physician for the mistress), and, in 
conclusion, there was a shoemaker, by the name 
of Kapiton Klimoff, a bitter drunkard. Klimoff 
regarded himself as an injured being and not 
appreciated at his true value, a cultured man 
used to the ways of the capital, who ought not 
to live in Moscow, without occupation, in a sort of 
desert spot, and if he drank,—as he himself ex- 
pressed it, with pauses between his words, and 
thumping himself on the breast,—he drank in re- 
ality from grief. One day he was under discus- 
sion by the mistress and her head butler, Gavrila, 
a man who would seem, from his little yellow 
eyes and his duck’s-bill nose, to have been desig- 
nated by Fate itself as a commanding person- 
age. The mistress was complaining about the 
depraved morals of Kapiton, who had been 
picked up somewhere in the street only the night 
before. 

“ Well, Gavrila,’—she suddenly remarked :— 
‘“ shall not we marry him? What dost thou think 
about it? Perhaps that will steady him.” 

“Why should n’t we marry him, ma'am? It 
can be done, ma’am,”—replied Gavrila;—“ and it 
would even be a very good thing.” 

“Yes; only who would marry him?” 

“Of course, ma’am. However, as you like, 
ma’am. He can always be put to some use, so to 


208 


MUMU 


speak; you would n’t reject him out of any ten 
men.” 

“IT think he likes Tatyana?” 

Gavrila was about to make some reply, but 
compressed his lips. 

“Yes! . .. let him woo Tatyana,”’—the mis- 
tress announced her decision, as she took a pinch 
of snuff with satisfaction:—“ dost hear me?” 

“T obey, ma’am,’—enunciated Gavrila, and 
withdrew. 

On returning to his chamber (it was situated 
in a wing, and was almost completely filled with 
wrought-iron coffers), Gavrila first sent away his 
wife, and then seated himself by the window, and 
became engrossed in meditation. The mistress’s 
sudden command had evidently dazed him. At 
last he rose, and ordered Kapiton to be called. 
Kapiton presented himself. . . . But before we 
repeat their conversation to the reader, we con- 
sider it not superfluous to state, in a few words, 
who this Tatyana was, whom Kapiton was to 
marry, and why his mistress’s command had dis- 
concerted the major-domo. 

Tatyana, who, as we have said above, served 
as laundress (but, in her quality of expert and 
well-trained laundress, she was given only the 
delicate linen) ,was a woman of eight-and-twenty, 
small, thin, fair-haired, with moles on her left 
cheek. Moles on the left cheek are regarded as a 
bad sign in Russia—as the presage of an unhappy 

209 


MUMU 


life. . . . Tatyana could not boast of her luck. 
From early youth she had been ill-treated; she 
had worked for two, and had never received any 
caresses; she was badly clothed; she received the 
very smallest of wages; she had practically no 
relatives; an old butler in the village who had been 
discharged for uselessness was her uncle, and 
her other uncles were common peasants,—that is 
all. At one time she had been a beauty, but her 
beauty soon left her. She was of extremely meek, 
or, to put it more accurately, frightened disposi- 
tion, felt the most complete indifference for her- 
self, and was deadly afraid of other people. Her 
sole thought was as to how she might finish her 
work by the appointed time. She never talked 
with any one, and she trembled at the mere men- 
tion of the mistress’s name, although she hardly 
knew her by sight. 

When Gerdasim was brought from the country, 
she almost swooned with terror at the sight of his 
huge form, used all possible efforts to avoid meet- 
ing him, and even screwed up her eyes when she 
was obliged to run past him, as she scurried from 
the house to the laundry. At first, Gerdsim paid 
no special attention to her, then he began to laugh 
when she crossed his path; then he began to gaze 
at her with pleasure, and at last he never took his 
eyes from her. Whether he had taken a hiking 
to her because of her gentle expression of coun- 
tenance, or of the timidity of her movements— 

210 


MUMU 


God knows! And behold, one day, as she was 
making her way across the courtyard, cautiously 
elevating on her outspread fingers a starched 
wrapper belonging to her mistress . . . some one 
suddenly grasped her by the elbow; she turned 
round and fairly screamed aloud: behind her stood 
Gerasim. Laughing stupidly, and bellowing af- 
fectionately, he was offering her a gingerbread 
cock with gold tinsel on its tail and wings. She 
tried to refuse it, but he thrust it forcibly straight 
into her hand, nodded his head, walked away, and, 
turning round, bellowed once more something of 
a very friendly nature to her. From that day 
forth he gave her no peace; wherever she went, 
he immediately came to meet her, smiled, bel- 
lowed, waved his hands, suddenly drew a ribbon 
from his breast and thrust it into her hand, and 
cleaned the dust away in front of her with his 
broom. 

The poor girl simply did not know how to take 
it or what to do. The whole household speedily 
found out about the pranks of the dumb yard- 
porter; jeers, jests, stinging remarks showered 
down on Tatyana. But none of them could bring 
himself to ridicule Gerdsim; the latter was not 
fond of jests; and they let her alone in his pres- 
ence. Willy-nilly the girl became his protégée. 
Like all deaf and dumb people, he was very per- 
spicacious, and understood perfectly well when 
they were laughing at him or at her. One day, 

211 


MUMU 


at dinner, the keeper of the linen, Tatyana’s chief, 
undertook, as the saying is, to banter her, and 
carried it to such a pitch that the latter, poor 
creature, did not know where to look, and almost 
wept with vexation. Gerdsim suddenly rose half- 
way, stretched out his enormous hand, laid it on 
the head of the keeper of the linen, and glared 
into her face with such ferocity that the latter 
fairly bent over the table. All fell silent. Gera- 
sim picked up his spoon again, and went on 
eating his cabbage-soup. “ Just see that dumb 
devil, that forest fiend!” all muttered under 
their breaths, and the keeper of the linen rose 
and went off to the maids’ room. On another oc- 
casion, observing that Kapiton—that same Kapi- 
ton of whom we have just been speaking—was 
chatting in rather too friendly a manner with Ta- 
tydna, Geradsim beckoned the man to him, led him 
away to the carriage-house, and seizing by its end 
a shaft which was standing in the corner, he men- 
aced him slightly but significantly with it. From 
that time forth no one dared to address a word 
to Tatyana. And all this ran smoothly in his 
hands. No sooner had the linen-keeper, it is true, 
run into the maids’ hall than she fell down in a 
swoon, and altogether behaved in such an artful 
manner, that on that very same day she brought 
to the knowledge of the mistress Gerdsim’s rude 
behaviour; but the capricious old lady merely 
laughed several times, to the extreme offence of 
212 


MUMU 


her linen-keeper, made her repeat, ‘“ What didst 
thou say? Did he bend thee down with his heavy 
hand?” and on the following day sent a silver 
ruble to Gerasim. She favoured him as a faithful 
and powerful watchman. Gerdsim held her in 
decided awe, but, nevertheless. he trusted in her 
graciousness, and was making ready to betake 
himself to her with the request that she would 
permit him to marry Tatyana. He was only 
waiting for the new kaftan promised him by the 
major-domo, in order that he might present him- 
self before his mistress in decent shape, when sud- 
denly this same mistress took into her head the 
idea of marrying Tatyana to Kapiton. 

The reader will now be able readily to under- 
stand the cause of the perturbation which seized 
upon Gavrila, the major-domo, after his conver- 
sation with his mistress. ‘“‘ The mistress,’—he 
thought, as he sat by the window,—”™ of course, 
favours Gerdsim” (this was well known to Ga- 
vrila, and therefore he also showed indulgence 
to him) ; “ still, he is a dumb brute. I can’t in- 
form the mistress that Gerdsim is courting Ta- 
tydna. And, after all, ’t is just; what sort of a 
husband is he? And, on the other hand, Lord for- 
give! for just as soon as that forest fiend finds 
out that Tatydna is to be married to Kapiton, 
he ‘Il smash everything in the house, by Heaven 
he will! For you can’t reason with him—you 
can’t prevail upon him, the devil that he is, in any 

213 


MUMU 


way whatsoever—sinful man that I am to have 
said so wicked a thing .... that’sso!” .... 

The appearance of Kapiton broke the thread 
of Gavrila’s meditations. The giddy-pated shoe- 
maker entered, threw his hands behind him, and, 
leaning up against a projecting corner of the 
wall near the door, in a free-and-easy way he 
stuck his right leg crosswise in front of the left 
and shook his head, as much as to say: “ Here I 
am. What ’s your will?” 

Gavrila looked at Kapiton and began to drum 
on the jamb of the window with his fingers. 
Kapiton merely narrowed his leaden eyes a bit, 
but did not lower them, even smiled slightly and 
passed his hand over his whitish hair, which stood 
out in disarray in all directions, as much as to say: 
“ Well, yes, tis I. What are you staring for?” 

“Good,”—said Gavrila, and paused for a 
space. 

“Thou ’rt a nice one,’ —remarked Gavrila, and 
paused awhile.—‘“‘ A nice person, there ’s no de- 
nying that!” 

Kapiton merely shrugged his shoulders. “ And 
art thou any better, pray?” he said to himself. 

“Come, now, just look at thyself; come, look,” 
—went on Gavrila reprovingly ;—“ Well, art not 
thou ashamed of thyself?” 

Kapiton surveyed with a calm glance his 
threadbare and tattered coat and his patched 
trousers, scanned with particular attention his 


214 


MUMU 


shoes perforated with holes, especially the one 
on whose toe his right foot rested in so dandified 
a manner, and again fixed his eyes on the major- 
domo. 

“What of it, sir?” 

“What of it, sir?”—repeated Gavrila.— 
“What of it, sir? And thou sayest: ‘ What of it, 
sir?’ to boot! Thou lookest like the devil,— Lord 
forgive me, sinful man that I am,—that ’s what 
thou lookest like.” 

Kapiton winked his little eyes briskly. 

““ Curse away, curse away, Gavrila Andréitch,”’ 
he thought to himself. 

“Thou hast been drunk again, apparently,” — 
began Gavrila;—“ drunk again, surely? Hey? 
Come, answer.”’ 

“ Owing to the feebleness of my health, I have 
succumbed to spirituous beverages, in fact,’ — 
returned Kapiton. 

“ Owing to feebleness of health? . . . . Thou 
art not whipped enough, that ’s what; and thou 
hast served thine apprenticeship in Peter’ to boot. 
. . . Much thou didst learn in thine apprentice- 
ship! Thou dost nothing but eat the bread of 
idleness.” 

“In that case, Gavrila Andréitch, I have but 
one judge,—the Lord God Himself, and no one 
else. He alone knows what sort of a man I am 
in this world, and whether I really do eat the bread 

1St. Petersburg. —TRransLaTor. 
215 


MUMU 


of idleness. And as for thy reflections concern- 
ing drunkenness,—in that case also I am not to 
blame, but rather one of my comrades; for he 
led me astray, and after he had accomplished his 
crafty purpose, he went away; that is to say, 
Ts veto’. 

‘““ And thou didst remain behind, thou goose, in 
the street. Akh, thou dissolute man! Well, but 
that ’s not the point,’ —went on the major-domo, 
= hut this. ‘The mistress.) /\!. (4% theresa 
paused for a moment,—‘“‘it is the mistress’s 
pleasure that thou shouldst marry. Hearest 
thou? She thinks that thou wilt grow steady 
when thou art married. Dost understand?” 

‘How can I help understanding, sir? ”’ 

“Well, yes. In my opinion, *t would be better 
to take thee firmly in hand. Well, but that ’s her 
affair. How now? Dost thou consent?” 

Kapiton displayed his teeth in a grin. 

“ Marriage is a good thing for a man, Gavrila 
Andréitch; and I, on my part, agree with very 
great pleasure.” 

“Well, yes,’—returned Gavrila, and thought 
to himself :—“‘ there ’s no denying it, the man 
talks with exactness.” —‘“‘ Only, see here,” —he 
went on, aloud:—“‘ an inconvenient bride has been 
picked out for thee.” 

“Who is she, permit me to inquire?” ... 

“Tatyana.” 

“ Tatyana?” 


MUMU 


And Kapiton’s eyes fairly popped out of his 
head, and he started away from the wall. 

“Well, what art thou scared at?... Is n’t 
she to thy taste?” 

“To my taste, forsooth, Gavrila Andréitch! 
The girl herself is all right; she ’s a good worker, 
a meek lass. . . . But you know yourself, Ga- 
vrila Andréitch, that that forest fiend, that spec- 
tre of the steppes, is courting her, you know... .” 

“I know, brother, I know all,”’—the major- 
domo interrupted him, with vexation:—“ but, 
Seest' thou. 2° 3°.” 

“ But, good gracious, Gavrila Andréitch! why, 
he ‘Il murder me; by Heaven, he ’ll murder me, 
he “Il mash me like a fly!) Why, he has a hand— 
just look for yourself what a hand he has; why, 
he simply has the hand of Minin and Pozharsky.' 
For he ’s deaf, he ‘Il kill me, and not hear that 
he is killing! He flourishes his huge fists exactly 
as though he were asleep. And there ’s no pos- 
sibility of stopping him. Why? Because, you 
know yourself, Gavrila Andréitch, he ’s deaf, 
and stupid as an ow] into the bargain. Why, he’s 
a sort of wild beast, a heathen idol, Gavrila An- 
dréitch,—worse than an idol . . . he’s a sort of 
aspen-block; why should I now suffer from him? 


1 Minin, the burgher of Nizhni Névgorod, and Prince Pozhdrsky, 
who led the Russians against the invading Poles in 1612, and expelled 
them from Russia. Their expulsion was followed by the election to 
the throne of the first Romanoff Tzar, Mikhail Feéddorovitch. —Trans- 
LATOR. 


217 


MUMU 


Of course nothing matters to me now; I have en- 
dured, I have practised patience, I have smeared 
myself with oil like a glazed Kolomna jug,—all 
the same, I’m a man, and not some sort of insig- 
nificant Jug, as a matter of fact.” 

‘ I know, I know; don’t give a description. .. .’ 

“O Lord, my God! ”’—went on the shoemaker, 
hotly:—“‘ when will the end come? When, O 
Lord! I ’ma miserable wretch, a hopeless wretch. 
"T is fate, my fate, when you come to think of 
it! In my younger years I was thrashed by a 
German master; in the best period of my life 
I was beaten by my own brother; and at last, in 
my riper years, to what have I come? . . .” 

“ Ekh, limp linden-bast soul! ’’—said Gavrila. 
—“ Why dost thou dilate on the matter, really, 
now?” 

“What do you mean by ‘ why,’ Gavrila André- 
itch? I ’m not afraid of blows, Gavrila André- 
itch. Let the master thrash me within doors, but 
give me a greeting before folks, and still I ’m 
numbered among men; but in this case, from 
When MASt Tis cws«ist- 

‘“ Come, now, begone!”’—Gavrila interrupted 
him, impatiently. 

Kapiton turned and took himself off. 

‘“ And supposing there were no question of 
him,’’—shouted the major-domo after him;— 
““ dost thou consent? ” 


218 


b 


MUMU 


“IT announce my assent,’’—replied Kapiton, 
and lurched out of the room. 

His eloquence did not abandon him even in ex- 
tremities. 

The major-domo paced the length of the room 
several times. 

“Well, now summon Tatydna,’—he said at 
last. 

In a few moments Tatyana entered almost in- 
audibly, and halted on the threshold. 

“ What is your command, Gavrila Andréitch? ” 
—she said in a quiet voice. 

The major-domo gazed fixedly at her. 

“Come,” —said he,—‘“‘ Taniusha, wouldst thou 
like to marry? The mistress has hunted up a 
bridegroom for thee.” 

“T obey, Gavrila Andréitch. But who has 
been appointed as my bridegroom? ’’—she added 
with hesitation. 

“ Kapiton, the shoemaker.” 

| obey, sir.” 

“He is a reckless man—that ’s a fact. But 
the mistress pins her hopes on thee in that re- 
spect.” . 

“TI obey, sir.” 

“It ’s a pity about one thing: . . . . there ’s 
that deaf man, Gardska, who ’s paying court to 
thee. And how hast thou bewitched that bear? I 
do believe he ’ll kill thee, the bear that he is... .” 


219 


MUMU 
“ He will, Gavrila Andréitch, he ‘Il infallibly 


kill me.” 

“ He will. . . . Well, we ‘ll see about that. 
What makes thee say, ‘ He ‘ll kill me’? Has he 
the right to kill thee, pray? Judge for thyself.” 

‘Why, I don’t know, Gavrila Andréitch, whe- 
ther he has a right or not.” 

“What a girl! I suppose thou hast not made 
him any promise. .. .” 

“What do you mean, sir?” 

The major-domo paused for a while, and 
thought: 

“Thou art a meek soul!”—*“ Well, very 
good,” —he added; “we will have another talk 
about it, and now, go thy way, Tatyana; I see 
that thou really art an obedient girl.” 

Tatydna turned, leaned lightly against the 
door-jamb, and left the room. 

‘But perhaps the mistress will have forgotten 
about this wedding by to-morrow,” —meditated 
the major-domo. “ Why have I been alarmed? 
Well pinion that insolent fellow if he makes 
any trouble—we ‘Il send word to the police. . 
Ustinya Feddorovna!”—he shouted in a loud 
voice to his wife, “‘ prepare the samovar, my good 
WOMAN? 3.4. 

All that day, Tatyana hardly quitted the laun- 
dry. At first she wept, then she wiped away her 
tears, and set to work as of yore. Kapiton sat un- 
til the dead of night in a drinking establishment 


220 


MUMU 


with a friend of gloomy aspect, and narrated to 
him in detail how he had lived in Peter with a 
certain gentleman who had everything that heart 
could desire, and was a great stickler for order, 
and withal permitted himself one little delin- 
quency: he was wont to get awfully fuddled, and 
as for the feminine sex, he simply had all the 
qualities to attract. . . His gloomy comrade 
merely expressed assent; but when Kapiton an- 
nounced, at last, that, owing to certain circum- 
stances, he must lay violent hands upon himself 
on the morrow, the gloomy comrade remarked 
that it was time to go to bed. And they parted 
churlishly, and in silence. 

In the meantime, the major-domo’s expecta- 
tions were not realised. The idea of Kapiton’s 
wedding had so captivated the mistress, that even 
during the night she had talked of nothing else 
with one of her companions, whom she kept in the 
house solely in case of sleeplessness, and who, 
like night cabmen, slept by day. When Gavrila 
entered her room after tea with his report, her 
first question was: 

“ And how about our wedding? ”’ 

He replied, of course, that it was progressing 
famously, and that Kapiton would present him- 
self to her that same day to thank her. 

The mistress was slightly indisposed; she did 
not occupy herself long with business. The 
major-domo returned to his own room and called 


221 


MUMU 


a council. The matter really did require partic- 
ular consideration. Tatyana did not make any 
objection, of course; but Kapiton declared, in the 
hearing of all, that he had but one head, and not 
two or three heads. . . . Gerdsim gazed surlily 
and swiftly at everybody, never left the maids’ 
porch, and, apparently, divined that something 
unpleasant for him was brewing. The assembled 
company (among them was present the old butler, 
nicknamed Uncle Tail, to whom all respectfully 
turned for advice, although all they heard from 
him was “ Yes! yes! yes! yes!”’) began, by way 
of precaution, for safety, by locking Kapiton up 
in the lumber-room with the filtering-machine 
and set to thinking hard. Of course, it was easy 
to resort to force; but God forbid! there would 
be a row, the mistress would get uneasy—and a 
calamity would ensue! What was to be done? 
They thought and thought, and eventually they 
hit upon something. It had been repeatedly no- 
ticed that Gerdsim could not abide intoxicated 
persons. ... As he sat at the gate, he turned 
away angrily whenever any man with a load of 
drink aboard passed him with unsteady steps, and 
the visor of his cap over his ear. They decided 
to instruct Tatyana to pretend to be intoxicated, 
and to walk past Gerasim reeling and staggering. 
The poor girl would not consent for a long time, 
but they prevailed upon her; moreover, she her- 
self saw that otherwise she would not be able to 
222 


MUMU 


get rid of her adorer. She did it. Kapiton was 
released from the lumber-room; the affair con- 
cerned him, anyhow. Gerdsim was sitting on the 
guard-stone at the gate and jabbing the ground 
with his shovel. . . . There were people staring 
at him from round all the corners, from behind 
the window-shades. . . . 

The ruse was completely successful. When 
first he caught sight of Tatyana, he nodded his 
head with an affectionate bellow; then he took 
a closer look, dropped his shovel, sprang to his 
feet, stepped up to her, put his face close down 
to her face. . . She reeled worse than ever with 
terror, and closed her eyes. . . . He seized her by 
the arm, dashed the whole length of the courtyard, 
and entering the room where the council was in 
session with her, he thrust her straight at Kapiton. 
Tatyana was fairly swooning. . .. Gerasim stood 
there, glared at her, waved his hand, laughed, and 
departed, clumping heavily to his little den. . . . 
For four-and-twenty hours he did not emerge 
thence. Antipka, the postilion, related afterward 
how, peeping through a crack, he had beheld 
Gerdsim seated on his bed, with his head resting 
on his hand, quietly, peaceably, and only bellow- 
ing from time to time; then he would rock him- 
self to and fro, cover his eyes, and shake his 
head, as postilions or stevedores do when they 
strike up their melancholy chanteys. Antipka 
was frightened, and he retreated from the crack. 


223 


~ 


MUMU 


But when, on the following day, Gerdasim 
emerged from his den, no particular change was 
noticeable in him. He merely seemed to have 
become more surly, and paid not the slightest at- 
tention to Tatyana and Kapiton. On that same 
evening, both of them, with geese under their 
arms, wended their way to the mistress, and a 
week later they were married. On the wedding- 
day itself, Gerdsim did not alter his demeanour 
in the slightest degree; only, he returned from 
the river without water: somehow, he had smashed 
the cask on the road; and at night, in the stable, 
he so zealously curried his horse that the animal 
reeled like a blade of grass in a gale, and shifted 
from foot to foot under his iron fists. 

All this took place in the spring. Another 
year passed, in the course of which Kapiton finally 
became a thorough-going drunkard, and as a man 
utterly unfit for anything, was despatched with 
the train of freight-sledges to a distant village, 
together with his wife. On the day of departure 
he made a great show of courage at first, and de- 
clared that, no matter where they might send him, 
even to the place where the peasant-wives wash 
shirts and put their clothes-beaters in the sky, he 
would not come to grief; but afterward he be- 
came low-spirited, began to complain that he was 
being taken to uncivilised people, and _ finally 
weakened to such a degree that he was unable even 
to put his own cap on his head. Some compas- 

224 


* 


MUMU 


sionate soul pulled it down on his brow, adjusted 
the visor, and banged it down on top. And when 
all was ready, and the peasants were already 
_holding the reins in their hands, and only waiting 
for the word: “ With God’s blessing!’ Gerasim 
emerged from his tiny chamber, approached Ta- 
tyana, and presented her with a souvenir con- 
sisting of a red cotton kerchief, which he had 
bought expressly for her a year before. Tatyana, 
who up to that moment had borne all the vicissi- 
tudes of her life with great equanimity, could hold 
out no longer, and then and there burst into tears, 
and, as she took her seat in the cart, exchanged 
three kisses with Gerdsim, in Christian fashion.’ 
He wanted to escort her to the town barrier, and 
at first walked alongside her cart, but suddenly 
halted at the Crimean Ford, waved his hand and 
directed his steps along the river. 

This happened toward evening. He walked 
quietly, and stared at the water. Suddenly it 
seemed to him as though something were floun- 
dering in the ooze close to the bank. He bent 
down, and beheld a small puppy, white with black 
spots, which, despite all its endeavours, utterly 
unable to crawl out of the water, was struggling, 
slipping, and quivering all over its wet, gaunt 
little body. Gerdsim gazed at the unfortunate 
puppy, picked it up with one hand, thrust it into 
his breast, and set out with great strides home- 


1 These kisses are bestowed on the cheeks, alternately. —TransLaTor. 
225 


MUMU 


ward. He entered his little den, laid the rescued 
puppy on his bed, covered it with his heavy coat, 
ran first to the stable for straw, then to the 
kitchen for a cup of milk. Cautiously throwing 
back the coat and spreading out the straw, he 
placed the milk on the bed. The poor little dog 
was only three weeks old; it had only recently got 
its eyes open, and one eye even appeared to be a 
little larger than the other; it did not yet know 
how to drink out of a cup, and merely trembled 
and blinked. Gerdsim grasped it lightly with 
two fingers by the head, and bent its muzzle down 
to the milk. The dog suddenly began to drink 
greedily, snorting, shaking itself and lapping. 
Gerdasim gazed and gazed, and then suddenly be- 
gan to laugh. . . . All night he fussed over it, 
put it to bed, wiped it off, and at last fell asleep 
himself beside it in a Joyous, tranquil slumber. 

No mother tends her infant as Gerdsim tended 
his nursling. (The dog proved to be a bitch.) 
In the beginning she was very weak, puny, and ill- 
favoured, but little by little she improved in health 
and looks, and at the end of eight months, thanks 
to the indefatigable care of her rescuer, she had 
turned into a very fair sort of a dog of Spanish 
breed, with long ears, a feathery tail in the form 
of a trumpet, and large, expressive eyes. She 
attached herself passionately to Gerdsim, never 
left him by a pace, and was always following him, 
wagging her tail. And he had given her a name, 

226 


MUMU 


too,—the dumb know that their bellowing attracts 
other people’s attention to them:—he called her 
Mumu. All the people in the house took a liking 
to her, and also called her dear little Mumu. 
She was extremely intelligent, fawned upon every 
one, but loved Gerdsim alone. Gerdasim himself 
loved her madly . .. . and it was disagreeable 
to him when others stroked her: whether he was 
afraid for her, or jealous of her—God knows! 
She waked him up in the morning by tugging at 
his coat-tails; she led to him by the reins the old 
water-horse, with whom she dwelt in great amity; 
with importance depicted on her face, she went 
with him to the river; she stood guard over the 
brooms and shovels, and allowed no one to enter 
his room. He cut out an aperture in his door 
expressly for her, and she seemed to feel that only 
in Gerdsim’s little den was she the full mistress, 
and therefore, on entering it, with a look of satis- 
faction, she immediately leaped upon the bed. At 
night she did not sleep at all, but she did not 
bark without discernment, like a stupid watch- 
dog, which, sitting on its haunches and elevating 
its muzzle, and shutting its eyes, barks simply 
out of tedium, at the stars, and usually three 
times in succession; no! Mumt’s shrill voice never 
resounded without cause! Either a stranger was 
approaching too close to the fence, or some sus- 
picious noise or rustling had arisen somewhere. 
.... Ina word, she kept capital watch. 
227 


MUMU 


Truth to tell, there was, in addition to her, an 
old dog in the courtyard, yellow in hue speckled 
with dark brown, Peg-top by name (Voltchdk) ; 
but that dog was never unchained, even by night, 
and he himself, owing to his decrepitude, did 
not demand freedom, but lay there, curled up in 
his kennel, and only now and then emitted a 
hoarse, almost soundless bark, which he immedi- 
ately broke off short, as though himself conscious 
of its utter futility. 

Mumiu did not enter the manor-house, and when 
Gerdsim carried wood to the rooms she always 
remained behind and impatiently awaited him, 
with ears pricked up, and her head turning now 
to the right, then suddenly to the left, at the 
slightest noise indoors. . . . 

In this manner still another year passed. Gera- 
sim continued to discharge his avocations as yard- 
porter and was very well satisfied with his lot, 
when suddenly an unexpected incident occurred. 
. . . Namely, one fine summer day the mistress, 
with her hangers-on, was walking about the draw- 
ing-room. She was in good spirits, and was laugh- 
ing and jesting; the hangers-on were laughing 
and jesting also, but felt no particular mirth; the 
people of the household were not very fond of see- 
ing the mistress in merry mood, because, in the 
first place, at such times she demanded instan- 
taneous and complete sympathy from every one, 
and flew into a rage if there was a face which 


: 228 


MUMU 


did not beam with satisfaction; and, in the sec- 
ond place, these fits did not last very long, and 
were generally succeeded by a gloomy and cross- 
grained frame of mind. On that day, she seemed 
to have got up happily; at cards, she held four 
knaves: the fulfilment of desire (she always told 
fortunes with the cards in the morning) ,—and 
her tea struck her as particularly delicious, in 
consequence whereof the maid received praise in 
words and ten kopéks in money. With a sweet 
smile on her wrinkled lips, the lady of the house 
strolled about her drawing-room and approached 
the window. A flower-garden was laid out in 
front of the window, and in the very middle of the 
border, under a rose-bush, lay Mumit assiduously 
gnawing a bone. The mistress caught sight of 
her. 

“My God!”—she suddenly exclaimed;— 
*“ what dog is that?” 

The hanger-on whom the mistress addressed 
floundered, poor creature, with that painful un- 
easiness which generally takes possession of a 
dependent person when he does not quite know 
how he is to understand his superior’s excla- 
mation. 

eee. Ga. -..do » <<. on’t know, ma am. 
she stammered; “I think it belongs to the dumb 
man.” 

“ My God! ”—her mistress interrupted her:— 
“why, it is a very pretty dog! Order it to be 

229 


MUMU 


brought hither. Has he had it long? How is it 
that I have not seen it before? . . . Order it to 
be brought hither.” 

The hanger-on immediately fluttered out into 
the anteroom. 

“Man, man! ’’—she screamed,—“ bring Mumt 
here at once! She is in the flower-garden.”’ 

“And so her name is Mumu,”—said the mis- 
tress;—‘‘ a very nice name.” 

‘““ Akh, very nice indeed, ma’am!’’—replied 
the dependent.—“ Be quick, Stepan!”’ 

Stepan, a sturdy young fellow, who served as 
footman, rushed headlong to the garden and tried 
to seize Mumiu; but the latter cleverly slipped out 
of his fingers, and elevating her tail, set off at 
full gallop to Gerdsim, who was in the kitchen 
beating out and shaking out the water-cask, twirl- 
ing it about in his hands like a child’s drum. Ste- 
pan ran after her, and tried to seize her at the very 
feet of her master; but the agile dog would not 
surrender herself into the hands of a stranger, 
and kept leaping and evading him. Gerdsim 
looked on at all this tumult with a grin; at last 
Stepan rose in wrath, and hastily gave him to 
understand by signs that the mistress had ordered 
the dog to be brought to her. Gerdsim was some- 
what surprised, but he called Mumi, lifted her 
from the ground, and handed her to Stepan. Ste- 
pan carried her into the drawing-room, and placed 
her on the polished wood floor. The mistress 


230 


2 ee a ee 


MUMU 


began to call the dog to her in a caressing voice. 
Mumt, who had never in her life been in such 
-magnificent rooms, was extremely frightened, 
and tried to dart through the door, but, rebuffed 
by the obsequious Stepan, fell to trembling, and 
crouched against the wall. 

“Mumt, Mumt, come hither to me,’’—said 
the mistress;—“ come, thou stupid creature... . 
@ont be afraid... .” 

“Come, Mumt, come to the mistress,’—re- 
peated the dependents;—*“ come! ”’ 

But Mumi looked anxiously about and did not 
stir from the spot. 

‘“ Bring her something to eat,’’—said the mis- 
tress.—“‘ What a stupid thing she is! She won’t 
come to the mistress. What is she afraid of?” 

“ She feels strange still,” —remarked one of the 
dependents, in a timid and imploring voice. 

Stepan brought a saucer of milk and set it in 
front of Mumiu, but Mumt did not even smell of 
the milk, and kept on trembling and gazing about 
her, as before. 

“ Akh, who ever saw such a creature! ’’—said 
the mistress, as she approached her, bent down 
and was on the point of stroking her; but Mumu 
turned her head and displayed her teeth in a snarl. 
— The mistress hastily drew back her hand. 

A momentary silence ensued. Mumu whined 
faintly, as though complaining and excusing her- 
self. . . The mistress retreated and frowned. 


231 


MUMU 


The dog’s sudden movement had frightened 
her. 

“ Akh!”—eried all the dependents with one 
accord:—*“ She did n’t bite you, did she? God 
forbid!” (Mumu had never bitten any one in 
her life.) ‘“ Akh! akh! ” 

“Take her away,’ —said the old woman, in an 
altered voice,—‘“‘ the horrid little dog! What a 
vicious beast she is! ” 

And slowly turning, she went toward her bou- 
doir. The dependents exchanged timorous 
glances and started to follow her, but she 
paused, looked coldly at them, said: “ Why do 
you do that? for I have not bidden you,” and left 
the room. 

The dependents waved their hands in despair at 
Stepan; the latter picked up Mumit and flung 
her out into the yard as speedily as possible, 
straight at Gerdsim’s feet; and half an hour later 
a profound stillness reigned in the house, and the 
old gentlewoman sat on her divan more lowering 
than a thunder-cloud. 

What trifles, when one comes to think of it, can 
sometimes put a person out of tune! 

The lady was out of sorts until evening, talked 
with no one, did not play cards, and passed a bad 
night. She took it into her head that they had 
not given her the same eau de cologne which they 
usually gave her, that her pillow smelled of soap, 
and made the keeper of the linen-closet smell 


232 


MUMU 


all the bed-linen twice,—in a word, she was 
upset and extremely incensed. On the follow- 
ing morning she ordered Gavrila to be sum- 
moned to her presence an hour earlier than 
usual. 

“Tell me, please,”—she began, as soon as the 
latter, not without some inward quaking, had 
crossed the threshold of her boudoir,—‘“ why that 
dog was barking in our courtyard all night long? 
It prevented my getting to sleep!” 

“A dog, ma’am ... . which one, ma’am?... 
Perhaps it was the dumb man’s dog,” —he uttered 
in a voice that was not altogether firm. 

“ T don’t know whether it belongs to the dumb 
man or to some one else, only it interfered with 
my sleep. And I am amazed that there is such a 
horde of dogs! I want to know about it. We 
have a watch-dog, have we not?” 

“Yes, ma’am, we have, ma’am, Peg-top, 
ma’am.” 

‘“ Well, what need have we for any more dogs? 
They only create disorder. There ’s no head to 
the house,—that ’s what ’s the matter. And what 
does the dumb man want of a dog? Who has 
given him permission to keep a dog in my court- 
yard? Yesterday I went to the window, and it 
was lying in the garden; it had brought some 
nasty thing there, and was gnawing it,—and I 
have roses planted there. . . .” 

The lady paused for a while. 


233 


MUMU 


“See that it is removed this very day... . 
dost hear me?”’ 

“ T obey, ma’am.” 

“This very day. And now, go. I will have 
thee called for thy report later.” 

Gavrila left the room. 

As he passed through the drawing-room, the 
major-domo transferred a small bell from one 
table to another, for show, softly blew his duck’s- 
bill nose in the hall, and went out into the ante- 
room. In the anteroom, on a locker, Stepan was 
sleeping in the attitude of a slain warrior in a 
battalion picture, with his bare legs projecting 
from his coat, which served him in lieu of a cov- 
erlet. 

The major-domo nudged him, and imparted 
to him in an undertone some order, to which 
Stepan replied with a half-yawn, half-laugh. The 
major-domo withdrew, and Stepan sprang to his 
feet, drew on his kaftan and his boots, went out 
and came to a standstill on the porch. Five min- 
utes had not elapsed before Gerasim made his ap- 
pearance with a huge fagot of firewood on his 
back, accompanied by his inseparable Mumu. 
(The mistress had issued orders that her bed- 
room and boudoir were to be heated even in sum- 
mer.) Gerdsim stood sideways to the door, gave 
it a push with his shoulder, and precipitated him- 
self into the house with his burden. Mumi, ac- 
cording to her wont, remained behind te wait for 

234 


MUMU 


him. Then Stepan, seizing a favourable mo- 
ment, made a sudden dash at her, like a hawk 
pouncing on a chicken, crushed her to the ground 
with his breast, gathered her up in his arms, and 
without stopping to don so much as his cap, ran 
out into the street with her, jumped into the first 
drozhky that came to hand, and galloped off to 
the Game Market. There he speedily hunted up 
a purchaser, to whom he sold her for half a ruble, 
stipulating only that the latter should keep her 
tied up for at least a week, and immediately re- 
turned home; but before he reached the house, 
he alighted from the drozhky, and making a cir- 
cuit of the house, he leaped over the fence into 
the yard from a back alley; he was afraid to enter 
by the wicket, lest he should encounter Gerdsim. 

But his anxiety was wasted; Gerdsim was no 
longer in the courtyard. On coming out of the 
house he had instantly bethought himself of 
Mumi; he could not remember that she had ever 
failed to await his return, and he began to run 
in every direction to hunt for her, to call her after 


his own fashion . . . he dashed into his little 
chamber, to the hay-loft; he darted into the street, 
—hither and thither. . . . She was gone! He ap- 


pealed to the domestics, with the most despairing 
signs inquired about her; pointing fourteen inches 
from the ground, he drew her form with his 
hands. . . . Some of them really did not know 
what had become of Mumiu, and only shook their 


985 


MUMU 


heads; others did know and grinned at him in 
reply, but the major-domo assumed a very pom- 
pous mien and began to shout at the coachmen. 
Then Gerdsim fled far away from the courtyard. 

Twilight was already falling when he returned. 
One was justified in assuming, from his exhausted 
aspect, from his unsteady gait, from his dusty 
clothing, that he had wandered over the half of 
Moscow. He halted in front of the mistress’s 
windows, swept a glance over the porch on which 
seven house-serfs were gathered, turned away, 
and bellowed once more: ““ Mumt! ”—Mumu did 
not respond. He went away. All stared after 
him, but no one smiled, no one. uttered a word 

. . and the curious postilion, Antipka, narrated 
on the following morning in the kitchen, that the 
dumb man had moaned all night long. 

All the following day Gerdsim did not show 
himself, so that Potap the coachman was obliged 
to go for water in his stead, which greatly dis- 
pleased coachman Potap. The mistress asked 
Gavrila whether her command had been executed. 
Gavrila replied that it had. The next morning 
Gerdsim emerged from his chamber to do his 
work. He came to dinner, ate and went off 
again, without having exchanged greetings with 
any one. His face, which was inanimate at the 
best of times, as is the case with all deaf and 
dumb persons, now seemed to have become abso- 
lutely petrified. After dinner he again quitted 


236 


MUMU 


the courtyard, but not for long, returned and 
immediately directed his steps to the hay-barn. 
Night came, a clear, moonlight night. Sighing 
heavily and incessantly tossing from side to side, 
Gerdsim was lying there, when he suddenly 
felt as though something were tugging at the 
skirts of his garments; he trembled all over, but 
did not raise his head, nevertheless, and even 
screwed his eyes up tight; but the tugging was 
repeated, more energetically than before; he 
sprang to his feet . . . . before him, with a frag- 
ment of rope about her neck, Mumu was capering 
about. A prolonged shriek of joy burst from his 
speechless breast; he seized Mumu and clasped 
her in a close embrace; in one moment she had 
licked his nose, his eyes, and his beard. . . He 
stood still for a while, pondering, cautiously 
slipped down from the hay-mow, cast a glance 
round him, and having made sure that no one was 
watching him, he safely regained his little 
chamber. 

Even before this Gerasim had divined that the 
dog had not disappeared of her own volition; that 
she must have been carried away by the mistress’s 
command; for the domestics had explained to 
him by signs how his Mumu had snapped at her 
—and he decided to take precautions of his own. 
First he fed Mumt with some bread, caressed her, 
and put her to bed; then he began to consider how 
he might best conceal her. At last he hit upon 


237 


MUMU 


the idea of leaving her all day in his room, and 
only looking in now and then to see how she was 
getting along, and taking her out for exercise 
at night. He closed the opening in his door com- 
pactly by stuffing in an old coat of his, and as 
soon as it was daylight he was in the courtyard, 
as though nothing had happened, even preserving 
(innocent guile!) his former dejection of coun- 
tenance. It could not enter the head of the poor 
deaf man that Mumiti would betray herself by her 
whining; as a matter of fact, every one in the 
house was speedily aware that the dumb man’s dog 
had come back and was locked up in his room; 
but out of compassion for him and for her, and 
partly, perhaps, out of fear of him, they did not 
give him to understand that his secret had been 
discovered. 

The major-domo alone scratched the back of 
his head and waved his hand in despair, as much 
as to say: “ Well, I wash my hands of the mat- 
ter! Perhaps the mistress will not get to know 
of it!’ And never had the dumb man worked 
so zealously as on that day; he swept and scraped 
out the entire courtyard, he rooted up all the 
blades of grass to the very last one, with his own 
hand pulled up all the props in the garden-fence, 
with a view to making sure that they were suffi- 
ciently firm, and then hammered them in again, 
—in a word, he fussed and bustled about so, that 
even the mistress noticed his zeal. 


990 
we) d 


MUMU 


Twice in the course of the day Gerdsim went 
stealthily to his captive; and when night came, 
he lay down to sleep in her company, in the little 
room, not in the hay-barn, and only at one o’clock 
did he go out to take a stroll with her in the fresh 
air. Having walked quite a long time with her 
in the courtyard, he was preparing to return, 
when suddenly a noise resounded outside the 
fence in the direction of the alley. Mumd pricked 
up her ears, began to growl, approached the fence, 
sniffed, and broke forth into a loud and piercing 
bark. Some drunken man or other had taken 
it into his head to nestle down there for the night. 
At that very moment, the mistress had just got 
to sleep after a prolonged “ nervous excitement ”’; 
she always had these excited fits after too hearty 
a supper. The sudden barking woke her; her 
heart began to beat violently, and to collapse. 

“Maids, maids!””—she moaned.—“ Maids!” 

The frightened maids flew to her bedroom. 

“ Okh, okh, I ’m dying! ”’—said she, throwing 
her hands apart in anguish.—“ There ’s that dog 
again, again!... Okh, send for the doctor! 
They want to kill me. . . The dog, the dog again! 
Okh!” 

And she flung back her head, which was in- 
tended to denote a swoon. 

They ran for the doctor, that is to say, for the 
household medical man, Khariton. The whole 
art of this healer consisted in the fact that he wore 

239 


MUMU 


boots with soft soles, understood how to feel the 
pulse delicately, slept fourteen hours out of the 
twenty-four, spent the rest of the time in sighing, 
and was incessantly treating the mistress to laurel 
drops. This healer immediately hastened to her, 
fumigated with burnt feathers, and when the mis- 
tress opened her eyes, immediately presented to 
her on a silver tray a wine-glass with the inevitable 
drops. 

The mistress took them, but immediately, with 
tearful eyes, began to complain of the dog, of 
Gavrila, of her lot, that she, a poor old woman, 
had been abandoned by every one, that no one had 
any pity on her, and that every one desired her 
death. In the meantime the unlucky Mumit con- 
tinued to bark, while Gerdsim strove in vain to call 
her away from the fence. 

‘Phere’: 2). there! .!. 2.2! it goes! aga) are 
stammered the mistress, and again rolled up her 
eyes. The medical man whispered to one of 
the maids; she rushed into the anteroom, and 
explained matters to Stepan; the latter ran to 
awaken Gavrila, and Gavrila, in a passion, gave 
orders that the whole household should be roused. 

Gerdsim turned round, beheld the twinkling 
lights and shadows in the windows, and, fore- 
boding in his heart a catastrophe, he caught up 
Mumiti under his arm, ran into his room and 
locked the door. A few moments later, five men 
were thumping at his door, but feeling the re- 

240 


bP 


MUMU 


sistance of the bolt, desisted. Gavrila ran up in a 
frightful hurry, ordered them all to remain there 
until morning and stand guard, while he himself 
burst into the maids’ hall and gave orders through 
the eldest companion, Liuboff ' Liubimovna,—to- 
gether with whom he was in the habit of stealing 
and enjoying tea, sugar, and other groceries,— 
that the mistress was to be informed that the dog, 
unfortunately, had run home again from some- 
where or other, but that it would not be alive on 
the morrow, and that the mistress must do them 
the favour not to be angry, and must calm down. 
The mistress probably would not have calmed 
down very speedily, had not the medical man, in 
his haste, poured out forty drops instead of 
twelve. The strength of the laurel took its effect 
—in a quarter of an hour the mistress was sleep- 
ing soundly and peacefully, and Gerdsim was 
lying, all pale, on his bed, tightly compressing 
Mumu’s mouth. 

On the following morning the mistress awoke 
quite late. Gavrila was waiting for her awaken- 
ing in order to make a decisive attack upon Gera- 
sim’s asylum, and was himself prepared to endure 
a heavy thunder-storm. But the thunder-storm 
did not come off. As she lay in bed, the mistress 
ordered the eldest dependent to be called to her. 

“ Liubdff Liubimovna,”—she began in a soft, 
weak voice; she sometimes liked to pretend to 

1 Amy or Charity.—TransLaror. 


241 


MUMU 


be a persecuted and defenceless sufferer; it is 
needless to state that at such times all the people 
in the house felt very uncomfortable:—“ Liuboff 
Liubimovna, you see what my condition is; 
go, my dear, to Gavrila Andréitch, and have 
a talk with him; it cannot be possible that some 
nasty little dog or other is more precious to 
him than the tranquillity, the very life of his 
mistress! I should not like to believe that,’ — 
she added, with an expression of profound emo- 
tion:—‘‘ Go, my dear, be so good, go to Gavrila 
Andréitch.” 

Liuboff Liubimovna betook herself to Ga- 
vrila’s room. What conversation took place be- 
tween them is not known; but a while later a 
whole throng of domestics marched through the 
courtyard in the direction of Gerasim’s little den; 
in front walked Gavrila, holding on his cap with 
his hand, although there was no wind; around 
him walked footmen and cooks; Uncle Tail gazed 
out of the window, and issued orders—that is to 
say, he merely spread his hands apart; in the rear 
of all, the small urchins leaped and capered, one 
half of them being strangers who had run in. On 
the narrow stairway leading to the den sat one 
sentry; at the door stood two others with clubs. 
They began to ascend the staircase, and occupied 
it to its full length. Gavrila went to the door, 
knocked on it with his fist, and shouted: 

“Open!” 

242 


MUMU 


A suppressed bark made itself audible; but 
there was no reply. 

“ Open, I say! ”—he repeated. 

“ But, Gavrila Andréitch,’—remarked Stepan 
from below:—“ he ’s deaf, you know—he does n’t 
hear.” 

All burst out laughing. 

“ What is to be done? ”’—retorted Gavrila from 
the top of the stairs. 

“ Why, he has a hole in his door,”’—replied 
Stepan ;—“ so do you wiggle a stick around in it 
a bit.” 

Gavrila bent down. 

“ He has stuffed it up with some sort of coat, 
that hole.” 

“ But do you poke the coat inward.” 

At this point another dull bark rang out. 

“See there, see there, she ’s giving’ herself 
away! ’’—some one remarked in the crowd, and 
again there was laughter. 

Gavrila scratched behind his ear. 

“No, brother,” —he went on at last: —‘“‘ do thou 
poke the coat through thyself, if thou wishest.”’ 

“Why, certainly!” 

And Stepan scrambled up, took a stick, thrust 
the coat inside, and began to wiggle the stick 
about in the opening, saying: “ Come forth, come 
forth!” He was still wiggling the stick when 
the door of the little chamber flew suddenly and 
swiftly open—and the whole train of menials 


243 


MUMU 


rolled head over heels down the stairs, Gavrila in 
the lead. Uncle Tail shut the window. 

‘““ Come, come, come, come! ””—shouted Gavrila 
from the courtyard;—“ just look out, look out!” 

Gerdsim stood motionless on the threshold. 
The crowd assembled at the foot of the staircase. 
Gerdsim stared at all these petty folk in their 
foreign kaftans from above, with his arms lightly 
set akimbo; in his scarlet peasant shirt he seemed 
like a giant in comparison with them. Gavrila 
advanced a pace. 

““ See here, brother,’—said he:—‘“I ‘ll take 
none of thy impudence.” 

And he began to explain to him by signs: “ The 
mistress insists upon having thy dog: hand it over 
instantly, or ’t will be the worse for thee.” 

Gerdsim looked at him, pointed to the dog, 
made a sign with his hand at his own neck, as 
though he were drawing up a noose, and cast an 
inquiring glance at the major-domo. 

“Yes, yes,”—replied the latter, nodding his 
head ;—“ yes, she insists.” 

Gerdsim dropped his eyes, then suddenly 
shook himself, again pointed at Mumdt, who all 
this time had been standing by his side, innocently 
wagging her tail and moving her ears to and fro 
with curiosity, repeated the sign of strangling 
over his own neck, and significantly smote him- 
self on the breast, as though declaring that he 
would take it upon himself to annihilate Mumu. 


244. 


MUMU 


“ But thou wilt deceive,’—waved Gavrila to 
him in reply. 

Gerdsim looked at him, laughed disdainfully, 
smote himself again on the breast, and slammed 
the door. 

All present exchanged glances in silence. 

“Well, and what ’s the meaning of this? ”— 
began Gavrila.—‘“ He has locked himself in.” 

“Let him alone, Gavrila Andréitch,’’—said 
Stepan;—“he ‘ll do it, if he has promised. 
That ’s the sort of fellow he is. . . . If he once 
promises a thing, it ’s safe. He is n’t like us 
folks in that respect. What is true is true. 
pes.” 

“ Yes,” —repeated all, and wagged their heads. 
—“ That ’sso. Yes.” 

Uncle Tail opened the window and said “ Yes,” 
also. 

“Well, we shall see, I suppose,” —returned 
Gavrila;—“ but the guard is not to be removed, 
notwithstanding. Hey, there, Erdshka!”’—he 
added, addressing a poor man in a yellow nankeen 
kazak coat, who was reckoned as the gardener :— 
“ what hast thou to do? Take a stick and sit here, 
and if anything happens, run for me on the in- 
stant.” 

Eroshka took a stick and sat down on the last 
step of the staircase. The crowd dispersed, with 
the exception of a few curious bodies and the 
small urchins, while Gavrila returned home, and 


245 


MUMU 


through Liuboff Liubimovna gave orders that the 
mistress should be informed that everything had 
been done, and that he himself, in order to make 
quite sure, had sent the postilion for a policeman. 
The mistress tied a knot in her handkerchief, 
poured eau de cologne on it, sniffed at it, wiped 
her temples, sipped her tea and, being still under 
the influence of the laurel drops, fell asleep again. 

An hour after all this commotion, the door of 
the tiny den opened and Gerasim made his ap- 
pearance. He wore a new holiday kaftan; he 
was leading Mumt by a string. Erdéshka drew 
aside and let him pass. Gerasim directed his way 
toward the gate. All the small boys who were 
in the courtyard followed him with their eyes 
in silence. He did not even turn round; he did 
not put on his cap until he reached the street. 
Gavrila despatched after him that same Eroshka, 
in the capacity of observer. Eréshka, perceiving 
from afar that he had entered an eating-house in 
company with his dog, awaited his reappearance. 

In the eating-house they knew Gerdsim and 
understood his signs. He ordered cabbage-soup 
with meat, and seated himself, with his arms 
resting on the table. Mumu stood beside his 
chair, calmly gazing at him with her intelligent 
eyes. Her coat was fairly shining with gloss: it 
was evident that she had recently been brushed. 
They brought the cabbage-soup to Gerdsim. He 
crumbled up bread in it, cut the meat up into 

246 


MUMU 


small pieces, and set the plate on the floor. Mumit 
began to eat with her customary politeness, hardly 
touching her muzzle to the food; Gerasim stared 
long at her; two heavy tears rolled suddenly from 
his eyes; one fell on the dog’s sloping forehead, 
the other into the soup. He covered his face with 
his hand. Mumiu ate half a plateful and retired, 
licking her chops. Gerdsim rose, paid for the 
soup, and set out, accompanied by the somewhat 
astounded glance of the waiter. Erdéshka, on 
catching sight of Gerdsim, sprang round the cor- 
ner, and allowing him to pass, again set out on his 
track. 

Gerdsim walked on without haste, and did not 
release Mumti from the cord. On reaching the 
corner of the street he halted, as though in 
thought, and suddenly directed his course, with 
swift strides, straight toward the Crimean Ford. 
On. the way he entered the yard of a house, to 
which a wing was being built, and brought thence 
two bricks under his arm. From the Crimean 
Ford he turned along the bank, advanced to a 
certain spot, where stood two boats with oars, tied 
to stakes (he had already noted them previously), 
and sprang into one of them, in company with 
Mumit. A lame little old man emerged from 
behind a hut placed in one corner of a vege- 
table-garden, and shouted at him. But Gerasim 
only nodded his head, and set to rowing so vig~ 
orously, although against the current, that in an 


24.7 


MUMU 


instant he had darted off to a distance of a 
hundred fathoms. The old man stood and stood, 
scratched his back, first with the left hand 
then with the right, and returned, limping, to 
his hut. 

But Gerdsim rowed on and on. And now he 
had left Moscow behind him. Now, already mea- 
dows, fields, groves stretched along the shores, and 
peasant cottages made their appearance. It 
smacked of the country. He flung aside the oars, 
bent his head down to Mumt, who was sitting in 
front of him on a dry thwart,—the bottom was 
inundated with water,—and remained motionless, 
with his mighty hands crossed on her back, while 
the boat drifted a little backward with the current 
toward the town. At last Gerdsim straightened 
up hastily, with a sort of painful wrath on his 
face, wound the rope around the bricks he had 
taken, arranged a noose, put it on Mumti’s neck, 
lifted her over the river, for the last time gazed 
at her. . . . She gazed back at him confidingly 
and without alarm, waving her little tail slightly. 
He turned away, shut his eyes, and opened his 
hands. . . Gerdsim heard nothing, neither the 
swift whine of the falling Mumi, nor the loud 
splash of the water; for him the noisiest day 
was silent and speechless, as not even the quiet- 
est night is to us, and when he opened his eyes 
again, the little waves were hurrying down the 
river as before; as befure they were plashing 


248 


MUMU 


about the sides of the boat, and only far astern 
toward the shore certain broad circles were 
spreading. 

Eroéshka, as soon as Gerasim vanished from his 
sight, returned home and reported what he had 
seen. 

“Well, yes,’—remarked Stepan;—“he will 
drown her. You may be easy about that. If he 
has once promised a thing .. . .” 

Throughout the day no one saw Gerasim. He 
did not dine at home. Evening came; all, except 
him, assembled for supper. 

“What a queer fellow that Gerasim is! ”’— 
squealed a fat laundress. “ The idea of making 
such a fuss over a dog! . . . Really!” 

“But Gerdsim has been here,’ —suddenly ex- 
claimed Stepan, as he scooped up his buckwheat 
groats with his spoon. 

“What? When?” 

“Why, a couple of hours ago. Certainly he 
has! I met him at the gate; he has gone away 
from here again; he went out of the courtyard. I 
wanted to ask him about his dog, but he evidently 
was out of sorts. Well, and he jostled me; it 
must have been done by accident, he only wanted 
to get me out of the way; as much as to say: 
‘Don’t bother me! ’—but he gave me such a dig 
in the spine, that 6i, 6i, 6i!”—And Stepan 
shrugged his shoulders with an involuntary grim- 
ace, and rubbed the nape of his neck.—“‘ Yes,” 

249 


MUMU 


—he added ;—“‘ his hand is an apt one, there ’s no 
denying that!” 

All laughed at Stepan and, after supper, dis- 
persed to their beds. 

And in the meantime, on that same night, on 
the T*** highway, a giant was marching onward 
diligently and unremittingly, with a sack on his 
shoulders, and a long staff in his hands. It was 
Gerdsim. He was hurrying on, without look- 
ing behind him, hurrying home, to his own 
house in the country, to his native place. After 
drowning poor Mumu, he had hastened to his 
little den, had briskly put together a few articles 
of clothing in an old horse-cloth, had tied it up 
with a knot, slung it across his shoulder, and 
taken himself off. He had noted well the road 
when he had been brought to Moscow; the village 
from which his mistress had taken him lay at 
most five-and-twenty versts from the highway. 
He walked along it with a certain invincible har- 
dihood, with despairing, yet joyful firmness. 
He strode onward, his breast expanded broadly; 
his eyes were bent eagerly straight ahead. He 
hastened onward as though his aged mother were 
waiting for him in his native place, as though she 
had summoned him to her after long wanderings 
in foreign lands, among strange peoples. . . The 
summer night, which had only just descended, 
was warm and tranquil; on the one hand, in the 
direction where the sun had gone down, the rim 


250 


MUMU 


of the sky was still white, with a crimson gleam 
from the last reflection of the vanished day,—on 
the other hand, the blue-grey gloom was rising. 
Night had come thence. Hundreds of quail were 
whistling all around, corn-crakes were vying with 
each other in their calls. . . . Gerdsim could not 
hear them, he could not hear even the delicate 
nocturnal rustling of the trees past which he 
was bearing his mighty feet, but he discerned the 
familiar scent of the ripening rye, which was 
exhaled from the dark fields; he felt the breeze 
wafting to meet him,—the breeze from his native 
place,—beating on his face, playing with his hair 
and beard; he beheld in front of him the road 
homeward, gleaming white, straight as an arrow; 
he beheld in the sky innumerable stars, which 
illuminated his path, and like a lion he stepped out 
powerfully and alertly, so that when the rising 
sun lighted up with its moistly-crimson rays the 
gallant fellow who had just been driven to ex- 
tremities, three-and-thirty versts already lay be- 
tween him and Moscow. . . . 

At the end of two days he was at home in his 
own little cottage, to the great amazement of the 
soldier’s wife who had removed thither. After 
praying before the holy pictures, he immediately 
betook himself to the overseer. The overseer was 
astounded at first; but the haying was only just 
beginning. Gerdsim, being a capital workman, 
immediately had a scythe put into his hand— 


201 


MUMU 


and he went off to mow as of yore, to mow in 
such fashion that the peasants simply sweated 
through and through as they watched his swings 
and strokes... . 

But in Moscow, on the day following Gera- 
sim’s flight, they discovered it. They went into 
his room, ransacked it, and told Gavrila. The 
latter came, made an inspection, shrugged his 
shoulders, and decided that the dumb man had 
either run away or drowned himself along with 
his stupid dog. The police were informed, and 
the matter was reported to the mistress. The 
mistress flew into a rage, fell to weeping, or- 
dered him to be hunted up at any cost, asserted 
that she had never ordered the dog to be made 
away with, and, at last, so berated Gavrila, 
that the latter did nothing all day but shake 
his head and add: “ Well!” until Uncle Tail 
brought him to his senses by saying to him: 
“We-ell!” At last news came from the vil- 
lage of Gerasim’s arrival there. The mistress 
calmed down somewhat; at first she was minded 
to issue an order demanding his immediate re- 
turn to Moscow, but afterward she announced 
that she wanted nothing to do with so ungrateful 
a man. Moreover, she died herself soon after, 
and her heirs had other things to think about be- 
sides Gerasim; and they dismissed the rest of their 
mother’s serfs on quit-rent. 

And Gerasim is living yet, poor, wretched fel- 


252 


MUMU 


low, in his lonely hut; he is healthy and powerful 
as of yore, and, as of yore, he does the work of 
four men, and, as of yore, he is staid and dignified. 
But the neighbours have noticed that ever since 
his return from Moscow he has entirely ceased 
to have anything to do with women, he does not 
even look at them, and he keeps not a single dog 
on his premises.—“‘ However,’—say the pea- 
sants,—‘“‘ ’t is lucky for him that he needs no wo- 
man; and as for a dog—what should he do with 
a dog? you could n’t drag a thief into his yard 
with a noose!” Such is the fame of the dumb 
man’s heroic strength. 


oi 

‘hia ae 
oh 
aOR 








THE INN 
(1852) 


——) 





THE INN 


OO. the great B*** highway, almost equidis- 
tant from the two county towns through 
which it passes, there was still standing, not long 
since, a spacious inn, very well known to drivers 
of trdika-teams, to freight-sledge peasants, to 
merchants’ clerks, to traders of the petty-burgher 
class, and, in general, to all the numerous and 
varied travellers, who at all seasons of the year 
roll along our roads. Everybody used to drop 
in at this inn; except only some landed proprie- 
tor’s carriage, drawn by six home-bred horses, 
would glide solemnly past, which, however, did 
not prevent the coachman and the lackey on the 
foot-board from looking with particular feeling 
and attention at the porch but too familiar to 
them; or some very poor fellow, in a rickety cart, 
with fifteen kopéks in the purse stuffed into his 
bosom, on coming to the fine inn, would urge on 
his weak nag, hastening to his night’s lodging in 
the suburb on the great highway, to the house of 
the peasant-host, where you will find nothing ex- 
cept hay and bread, but. on the other hand, will 
not be obliged to pay a kopék too much. 

In addition to its advantageous situation, the 


AGI 


THE: IN 


inn of which we have just spoken possessed many 
attractions: capital water in two deep wells with 
creaking wheels and iron buckets on chains; a 
spacious stable-yard with plenty of board sheds 
on stout pillars; an abundant supply of good oats 
in the cellar; a warm house, with a huge Russian 
stove, into which, as upon the shoulders of an 
epic hero, long logs were thrust; two fairly-clean 
little chambers with reddish-lilac paper on the 
walls somewhat tattered at the bottom, with a 
painted wooden divan, chairs to match, and two 
pots of geranium in the windows, which, how- 
ever, were never washed and were dim with the 
dust of many years. This inn offered other com- 
forts:—the blacksmith’s shop was near at hand, 
and the mill was situated almost alongside of it; 
in conclusion, good food was to be had in it, 
thanks to the fat and rosy-cheeked peasant-wo- 
man who was the cook, and who prepared the 
viands in a savoury manner and with plenty of 
fat, and was not stingy of her stores; the nearest 
dram-shop was only half a verst distant; the land- 
lord kept snuff, which, although mixed with 
ashes, was extremely heady, and tickled the nose 
~ agreeably: in a word, there were many reasons 
why guests of every sort were not lacking in 
thatinn. Travellers had taken a fancy to it—that 
is the principal thing; without that, as is well 
known, no business will thrive; and it was liked 
most of all because, as people said in the country- 
258 


THE INN 


side, the landlord himself was very lucky and suc- 
ceeded in all his enterprises, although he little 
deserved his luck, and it was evident that if a 
man is destined to be lucky he will be. 

This landlord was a petty burgher, Naum Iva- 
noff by name. He was of medium stature, thick- 
set, stooping and broad-shouldered; he had a 
large, round head, hair which was wavy and al- 
ready grizzled, although in appearance he was not 
over forty years of age; a plump and rosy face, 
a low, but white and smooth brow, and small, 
bright blue eyes, with which he gazed forth very 
strangely—askance, and, at the same time, inso- 
lently, which is a combination rarely encountered. 
He always held his head in a drooping position, 
and turned it with difficulty, perhaps because his 
neck was very short; he walked briskly and did 
not swing his arms, but opened his clenched fists 
as he walked. When he smiled,—and he smiled 
frequently, but without laughter, as though to 
himself,—his large lips moved apart in an un- 
pleasant way, and displayed a row of compact 
and dazzling teeth. He spoke abruptly, and 
with a certain surly sound in his voice. He 
shaved off his beard, but did not adopt the for- 
eign dress. His garments consisted of a long, 
extremely-threadbare kaftan, ample bag-trousers, 
and shoes worn on the bare feet. He often ab- 
sented himself from home on business,—and he 
had a great deal of business: he was a jobber of 

259 


THE. INN 


horses, he hired land, he raised vegetables for the 
market, he purchased gardens, and in general oc- 
cupied himself with various commercial specula- 
tions, —but his absences never lasted long; like the 
hawk, to whom in particular, especially as to the 
expression of his eyes, he bore a strong resem- 
blance, he kept returning to his nest. He under- 
stood how to keep that nest in order; he kept 
track of everything, he heard everything, and 
gave orders about everything; he dealt out, he 
served out, and calculated everything himself, 
and while he did not reduce his price a kopék to 
any one, yet he did not overcharge. 

The lodgers did not enter into conversation 
with him, and he himself was not fond of wasting 
words without cause. “I need your money, and 
you need my victuals,” he was wont to explain, 
as though he were tearing off each separate word: 
“you and I have n’t got to stand godparents to 
a child and become cronies; the traveller has 
eaten, I have fed him his fill, let him not outstay 
his welcome. And if he is sleepy, then let him 
sleep, not chatter.” He kept sturdy and healthy, 
but tame and submissive labourers; they were 
extremely afraid of him. He never took a drop 
of intoxicating liquor into his mouth, but he gave 
each of them ten kopéks for vodka on festival 
days; on other days they did not dare to drink. 
People like Naum speedily grow rich; . . . . but 
Naum Ivanoff had not reached the brilliant con- 

260 


THE INN 


dition in which he found himself—and he was 
reckoned to be worth forty or fifty thousand 
rubles—by straightforward ways. 

Twenty years previous to the date at which we 
have set the beginning of our story, an inn existed 
on that same site upon the highway. ‘Truth to 
tell, it had not that dark-red plank roof which 
imparted to Naum Ivanoff’s house the aspect of 
a nobleman’s manor-house; and it was poorer in 
its construction, and the sheds in the stable-yard 
were thatched, and the walls were made of wat- 
tled boughs instead of boards; neither was it 
distinguished by a triangular Greek pediment 
on turned columns; but it was a very decent 
sort of inn, nevertheless,—spacious, solid, and 
warm,-—and travellers gladly frequented it. Its 
landlord at that time was not Natm Ivanoff, but 
a certain Akim Semyonoff, the serf of a neigh- 
bouring landed proprietress, Lizavéta Prokho- 
rovna Kuntze—the widow of a staff-officer. 
This Akim was an intelligent peasant, with good 
business capacity, who, having started with two 
wretched little nags as a carrier, in his youth, re- 
turned a year later with three good horses, and 
from that time forth spent the greater part of his 
life in roaming along the highways, visited Kazan 
and Odessa, Orenbirg and Warsaw, and went 
abroad to “ Lipetzk,”* and travelled toward the 
last with two troéikas of huge and powerful stal- 

1 Leipzig. 
261 


ELE, UNG 


lions harnessed to two enormous carts. Whether 
it was that he became bored by this homeless, 
roving life, or whether he was seized with the 
desire to set up a family (in one of his absences 
his wife had died; the children which he had had 
died also), at all events he decided, at last, to 
abandon his former avocation and set up an inn. 
With the permission of his mistress, he estab- 
lished himself on the highway, purchased in her 
name half a desyatina’ of land, and erected 
thereon an inn. The venture proved a success. 
He had more than enough money for the installa- 
tion; the experience which he had acquired in his 
prolonged wanderings to all parts of Russia was 
of the greatest advantage to him: he knew how 
to please travellers, especially men of his own 
former calling,—three-horse-team carriers,— with 
many of whom he was personally acquainted, and 
whose patronage is particularly valued by the 
tavern-keepers: so much do these people eat and 
consume for themselves and their robust horses. 
Akim’s inn became known for hundreds of versts 
round about. . . . People were even fonder of 
patronising him than they were of patronising 
Natm, who afterward succeeded him, although 
Akim was far from being comparable to Naim 
in his knowledge of the landlord’s business. 
Akim had everything established on the old- 


1 A desyatina is 2.70 acres. He was obliged to buy the land in his 
owner’s name: serfs could not hold landed property.—TRANsLaTor. 


262 


THE INN 


tashioned footing,—warm but not quite clean; 
and it sometimes happened that his oats turned 
out to be light, or damp, and the food also was 
prepared in rather indifferent fashion; such vic- 
tuals were sometimes served on his table as had 
been better left in the oven for good, and that 
not because he was stingy with material, but just 
because it happened so—his wife had not looked 
after things. On the other hand, he was ready 
to deduct from the price, and he would even not 
refuse to give credit. In a word, he was a good 
man and an amiable landlord. He was liberal 
also with his conversation and standing treat; 
over the samovar he would sometimes get to dab- 
bling so that you would prick up your ears, es- 
pecially when he began to talk about Peter,’ 
about the Tcherkessian steppes, or about foreign 
parts; well, and as a matter of course, he was 
fond of drinking with a nice man, only not to 
excess, and more for the sake of sociability—so 
travellers said of him. 

Merchants bore great good-will toward him, 
as, in general, did all those people who call them- 
selves old-fashioned—those people who do not 
set out on a journey without having girded 
themselves and who do not enter a room with- 
out crossing themselves,* and who will not en- 
ter into conversation with a man without hav- 


1St. Petersburg. —TRanstator. 
2 To the holy pictures.—TRansiator. 


263 


THE INN 


ing preliminarily bidden him “ good morning.” 
Akim’s mere personal appearance disposed one 
in his favour; he was tall, rather gaunt, but 
very well built, even in his mature years; he 
had a long, comely and regular face, a high, open 
brow, a thin, straight nose, and small lips. The 
glance of his prominent brown eyes fairly beamed 
with gentle cordiality, his thin, soft hair curled in 
rings about his neck: very little of it remained 
on the crown of his head. The sound of Akim’s 
voice was very agreeable, although weak; in his 
youth he had been a capital singer, but his long 
journeys in the open air, in winter, had impaired 
his lungs. On the other hand, he spoke very flu- 
ently and sweetly. When he laughed, ray-like 
wrinkles, very pleasant to behold, spread them- 
selves out around his eyes;—such wrinkles are to 
be seen only in kind people. Akim’s movements 
were generally slow and not devoid of a certain 
self-confidence and sedate courtesy, as was befit- 
ting a man of experience who had seen much in 
his day. 

In fact, Akim would have been all right,—or, 
as they called him even in the manor-house, 
whither he was wont to go frequently, as well as 
unfailingly on Sundays after the morning service 
in church, Akim Semyonovitch,’—would have 
been all right in every respect had he not had one 
failing, which has ruined many men on this earth, 

1See note on p. 273. —TRANSLATOR. 


264 


THE INN 


and in the end ruined him also—a weakness for 
the female sex. Akim’s amorousness went to ex- 
tremes: his heart was utterly unable to resist a 
feminine glance; he melted in it, as the first au- 
tumnal snow melts in the sun . . . . and he had 
to pay dearly for his superfluous sensibility. 

In the course of the first year after he had set- 
tled down upon the highway, Akim was so oc- 
cupied with the building of his inn, with the in- 
stallation of his establishment, and with all the 
worries which are inseparable from all new house- 
holds, that he positively had not time to think 
of women, and if any sinful thoughts did enter 
his head, he promptly expelled them by the peru- 
sal of divers holy books, for which he cherished a 
great respect (he had taught himself to read and 
write during his first trip as carrier), by chanting 
the Psalms in an undertone, or by some other pi- 
ous occupation. Moreover, he was already in his 
forty-sixth year,—and at that age all passions 
sensibly calm down and grow cool; and the time 
for marrying was past. Akim himself had begun 
to think that that folly, as he expressed it, had 
broken loose from him... but evidently no man 
can escape his fate. 

Akim’s former owner, Lizavéta Prékhorovna 
Kuntze, who had been left a widow by her hus- 
band, a staff-officer of German extraction, was 
herself a native of the town of Mittau, where she 
had passed the early days of her childhood, and 


265 


THE INN 


where she still had a very numerous and needy 
family, concerning whom, however, she troubled 
herself very little, especially since one of her bro- 
thers, an officer in an army infantry regiment, 
had unexpectedly presented himself at her house 
and on the following day had raised such an up- 
roar that he had all but thrashed the mistress of 
the house herself, and had addressed her, into the 
bargain, as “ du Luwmpenmamsell!” while on the 
preceding evening he had himself called her in 
broken Russian: “ sister and benefactress.” Liza- 
véta Prokhorovna hardly ever left the nice little 
estate acquired by the efforts of her spouse, who 
had been an architect;* she herself managed it, 
and managed it far from badly. Lizavéta Pro- 
khorovna did not let slip the smallest source of 
profit; she derived advantage to herself from 
everything; and in this point, as well as in that 
of remarkable cleverness in making one kopék 
serve instead of two, her German nationality be- 
trayed itself; in everything else she had become 
extremely Russified. She had a considerable 
number of domestic serfs; in particular, she kept 
a great many maids, who, however, did not eat the 
bread of idleness: from morning until night their 
backs were bowed over work.” She was fond of 


1 He had been a staff-officer in the civil service, according to Peter 
the Great’s Table of Ranks. —Transiator. 

2 These numerous maids, in the old serf days, were employed in 
making the most exquisite linen, lace, embroidery, and so forth.— 
TRANSLATOR. 


266 


THE INN 


driving out in her carriage with liveried lackeys 
on the foot-board; she was fond of having peo- 
ple retail gossip to her and play the sycophant; 
and she herself was a first-rate gossip; she was 
fond of loading a man down with her favours, 
and suddenly stunning him with disgrace—in 
a word, Lizavéta Prokhorovna conducted herself 
exactly like a nobly-born dame.—She favoured 
Akim,—he paid her a good round quit-rent with 
punctuality,—she chatted graciously with him, 
and even, in jest, invited him to be her guest . . . 
but it was precisely in the manor-house that ca- 
lamity awaited Akim. 

Among the number of Lizavéta Prékhorovna’s 
maids, there was one young girl of twenty, an 
orphan, Dunydsha by name. She was not ill- 
favoured, was well formed and clever; her fea- 
tures, although not regular, were calculated to 
please; her fresh complexion, her thick, fair hair, 
her red lips, and a certain dashing, half-sneer- 
ing, half-challenging expression of face, were 
all quite charming in their way. Moreover, in 
spite of her orphaned state, she bore herself 
staidly, almost haughtily; she was descended from 
an ancient line of house-serfs; her late father, 
Aréfy, had been major-domo for thirty years, 
and her grandfather, Stepan, had served as valet 
to a gentleman long since deceased, a sergeant 
of the Guards and a prince. She dressed neatly, 
and was proud of her hands, which really were ex- 


267 


THE INN 


tremely handsome. Dunyasha showed great dis- 
dain for all her admirers, listened to their sweet 
sayings with a conceited smile, and if she an- 
swered them, it was chiefly by exclamation only, 
in the nature of: “ Yes! certainly! catch me doing 
that! the idea!” . . . These exclamations scarcely 
ever left her tongue. Dunyasha had spent about 
three years in Moscow, under instruction, where 
she had acquired those peculiar grimaces and 
manners which characterise chambermaids who 
have sojourned in the capitals. People spoke of 
her as a conceited girl (a great encomium in the 
mouths of domestics) who, although she had seen 
much of life, had not lowered her dignity. She 
sewed far from badly, moreover; but, neverthe- 
less, Lizavéta Prokhorovna had no particular 
liking for her, thanks to the head maid, Kiril- 
loyna, a woman no longer young, sly, and fond of 
intrigue. Kuirillovna profited by her great in- 
fluence over her mistress, and contrived very art- 
fully to keep rivals out of the way. 

And it was with this Dunyasha that Akim fell 
in love! And in a way such as he had never 
loved before. He beheld her for the first time 
in church; she had only just returned from Mos- 
cow; ... . then he met her several times in the 
manor-house; at last he spent a whole evening 
with her at the overseer’s, whither he had been 
invited to tea, along with other honourable per- 
sonages. The house-serfs did not look down 


268 


THE INN 


on him, although he did not belong to their social 
class, and wore a beard;' but he was a cultured 
man, could read and write, and—chief thing of 
all—he had money; moreover, he did not dress 
in peasant fashion, but wore a long kaftan of 
black cloth, boots of dressed calf-leather, and a 
small kerchief round his neck. 'To tell the truth, 
some of the house-serfs did make remarks among 
themselves to the effect, “’t is plain, neverthe- 
less, that he is not one of us,” but to his face they 
almost flattered him. That evening at the over- 
seers, Dunyasha completed the conquest of 
Akim’s amorous heart, although she positively did 
not reply by a single word to all his ingratiating 
speeches, and only now and then cast a side- 
long glance at him, as though astonished at see- 
ing that peasant there. All this only inflamed 
Akim the more. He went off home, thought, and 
thought, and made up his mind to obtain her 
hand. . . . So thoroughly had she “ bewitched ” 
him. But how shall we describe Dunyasha’s 
wrath and indignation when, five days later, Ki- 
rillovna, affectionately calling her into her room, 
announced to her that Akim (and evidently he 
had understood how to set about the business), 
—that that beard-wearer and peasant Akim, to 
sit beside whom she had regarded as an insult, — 
was courting her! 

At first Dunydsha flushed hot all over, then she 
1The beard was regarded as amark of peasant origin. —TRansLator. 


269 





THE INN 


emitted a forced laugh, then fell to weeping; 
but Kirillovna conducted the attack so artfully, 
so clearly made her feel her position in the house, 
so cleverly hinted at Akim’s decent appearance, 
wealth, and blind devotion, and, in conclusion, so 
significantly alluded to the mistress’s own wishes, 
that Dunyasha left the room with hesitation 
depicted on her face, and encountering Akfm, 
merely gazed intently into his eyes, but did not 
turn away. ‘The fabulously lavish gifts of this 
enamoured man dispelled her last doubts... . 
Lizavéta Prokhoroyna, to whom Akim, in his joy, 
had presented a hundred peaches on a large sil- 
ver salver, gave her consent to his marriage with 
Dunyasha, and the wedding took place. Akim 
spared no expense—and the bride, who on the 
eve of the wedding had sat in the maids’ room like 
one on the verge of expiring, and had done no- 
thing but cry on the very morning of the wed- 
ding, while Kirillovna was dressing her for the 
ceremony, was speedily comforted. . .. Her 
mistress gave her her own shaw] to wear in church 
—and that very same day Akim gave her another 
of the same sort, only almost better. 

So then Akim married, and transported his 
young wife to his inn. . . . They began to live. 
Dunyasha proved to be a bad housekeeper, a 
poor helpmeet for her husband. She never looked 
after anything, she grieved, was bored, unless 
some passing officer was attentive to her and paid 


270 


THE INN 


court to her, as he sat behind the capacious 
samovar; she frequently absented herself, some- 
times going to the town to shop, sometimes to the 
mistress’s manor-house, which lay four versts dis- 
tant from the inn. In the manor-house she re- 
freshed herself; there people of her own sort sur- 
rounded her; the maids envied her smart attire; 
Kirtllovna treated her to tea; Lizavéta Prékho- 
rovna herself chatted with her. ... But even 
these visits did not pass off without bitter emo- 
tions for Dunyasha. . . . For instance, being a 
house-serf, she was not allowed to wear a bonnet, 
and was obliged to muffle her head up in a ker- 
chief .... “like a merchant’s wife,” as the 
crafty Kirfllovna said to her. ... “ Like the 
wife of a petty burgher,” thought Dunyasha to 
herself. 

More than once there recurred to Akim’s mind 
the words of his only relative, an aged uncle, an 
inveterate peasant, a man without family or land: 
“ Well, brother, Akimushka,” he had said to him, 
when he met him in the street, “ I have heard that 
thou ’rt a-courting. .. .” 

“ Well, yes, I am; what of it?” 

“ Bkh, Akim, Akim! Thou ’rt no mate for us 
peasants now, there ’s no denying it; neither is she 
a mate for thee.” 

“But why is n’t she a mate for me?” 

“Why, for this reason, at least,”—returned the 
other, pointing to Akim’s beard, which he, to 

271 


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please his bride, had begun to clip close—he 
would not consent to shave it off entirely. .. . 
Akim dropped his eyes; and the old man turned 
away, wrapped about him the skirts of his sheep- 
skin coat, which was ragged on the shoulders, and 
went his way, shaking his head. 

Yes, more than once did Akim grow pensive, 
grunt and sigh. . . . But his love for his pretty 
wife did not diminish; he was proud of her, 
especially when he compared her, not only with 
the other peasant women, or with his former 
wife, whom he had married at the age of sixteen, 
but with the other maids of the house-serf class: 
as much as to say: “ Just see what sort of a bird 
we ’ve captured!” .... Her slightest caress 
afforded him great pleasure. . . “ Perhaps,” he 
thought to himself, “ she “Il get used to me, she ‘Il 
grow accustomed to her new life. . .” Moreover, 
she conducted herself very well, and no one could 
say an evil word concerning her. 

Several years passed in this manner. Dunya- 
sha really did end by becoming used to her exis- 
tence. The older Akim grew, the more attached 
he became to her, and the more he trusted her; her 
friends, who had married men not of the peasant 
class, suffered dire need, or were in distress, or 
had fallen into evil hands. . . . But Akim con- 
tinued to wax richer and richer. He succeeded in 
everything—he was lucky; only one thing grieved 
him: God had not given him any children. Dun- 

272 


THE INN 


yasha was already in her twenty-fifth year; every 
one had come to call her Avdétya Aréfyevna.' 
Nevertheless, she had not become a good house- 
wife.— But she had come to love her home, she 
attended to the stores of provisions, she looked 
after the servant-maids. . . . Truth to tell, she 
did all this in an indifferent way, and did not ex- 
ercise the proper oversight as to cleanliness and 
order; but, on the other hand, in the principal 
room of the inn, alongside the portrait of Akim, 
hung her portrait, painted in oils and ordered 
by her from a home-bred artist, the son of the 
parish deacon.—She was represented in a white 
gown and a yellow shawl, with six rows of large 
pearls on her neck, long earrings in her ears, and 
rings on every finger. . . It was possible to recog- 
nise her,—although the painter had depicted her 
as extremely corpulent and rosy-cheeked, and 
had painted her eyes black instead of grey, and 
even a trifle squinting. . . He had not succeeded 
at all with Akim: the latter had, somehow, turned 
out very dark—a la Rembrandt,—so that a trav- 
eller would sometimes step up and stare at it, and 
merely bellow a bit. 

Avdotya had begun to dress with a good deal 
of carelessness; she would throw a large kerchief 
over her shoulders, and the gown under it would 


1 Neither field-serfs nor the superior house-serfs were addressed by 
their patronymic (like the nobility). Dunydsha is the diminutive 
of Avdoty. —TRransLaTor. 


or 


a(le 


THE INN 


fit anyhow; indolence had taken possession of her, 
that sighing, languid, sleepy indolence to which 
Russians are but too greatly inclined, especially 
when their existence is assured. ... . 

Nevertheless, the affairs of Akim and his wife 
throve very well; they lived in concord, and bore 
the reputation of being an exemplary married 
pair. But, like the squirrel which is cleaning its 
nose at the very moment when the arrow is 
aimed at it, a man has no foreboding of his own 
disaster—and suddenly down he crashes, as 
though on the ice... . 

One autumn evening a merchant with dry- 
goods stopped at Akim’s inn. He was making 
his way, by devious roads, with two loaded 
kibitkas, from Moscow to Kharkoff; he was 
one of those peddlers whom the wives and 
daughters of landed proprietors sometimes await 
with so much impatience. With this peddler, al- 
ready an elderly man, were travelling two com- 
rades, or, to put it more accurately, two work- 
men—one pale, thin, hump-backed, the other a 
stately, handsome young fellow of twenty. They 
ordered supper, then sat down to drink tea; the 
peddler invited the landlord and landlady to 
drink a cup with him—and they did not re- 
fuse. A conversation was speedily under way 
between the two old men (Akim had seen his 
fifty-sixth birthday) ; the peddler was making in- 
quiries concerning the neighbouring landed pro- 

274 


THE INN 


prietors,—and no one could impart to him all 
necessary details about them better than could 
Akim. The hump-backed labourer kept continu- 
ally going out to look at the carts, and at last took 
himself off to sleep; Avdétya was left to chat with 
the other labourer. . . . She sat beside him and 
talked little, and chiefly listened to what he nar- 
rated to her; but evidently his remarks pleased 
her; her face grew animated, a flush played over 
her cheeks, and she laughed quite often and 
readily. The young labourer sat almost motion- 
less, with his curly head bent toward the table; he 
spoke softly without raising his voice, and without 
_haste; on the other hand his eyes, not large, but 
audaciously bright and blue, fairly bored into 
Avdotya; at first she turned away from them, 
then she began to gaze into his face. The young 
fellow’s face was as fresh and smooth as a Cri- 
mean apple; he smiled frequently and drummed 
his white fingers on his white chin, already cov- 
ered with sparse, dark down. He expressed him- 
self after the merchant fashion, but with great 
ease, and with a certain careless self-confidence — 
and kept staring at her all the while with the 
same insistent and insolent look. . . . Suddenly 
he moved a little closer to her, and without chang- 
ing the expression of his face in the least, he said 
to her: “ Avdétya Aréfyevna, there ’s nobody in 
the world nicer than you; I ’m ready to die for 
you, I do believe.” 


275 


THE INN 


Avdotya laughed loudly. 

“What ’s the matter with thee? ’— Akim asked 
her. 

“Why, this man here is telling such absurd 
things,’—she said, but without any special con- 
fusion. 

The old peddler grinned. 

“ He, he, yes, ma'am; that Natm of mine is 
such a joker, sir. But you must n’t listen to 
him, ma’am.”’ 

“ Yes, certainly! as if I would listen to him,” 
—she replied, and shook her head. 

“He, he, of course, ma’am,’—remarked the 
old man.—‘“‘ Well, but,’”’—he added in a drawl,— 


‘good-bye, I ’m much obliged, ma’am, but now 


’t is time to go to roost, ma’am. .. .” And he 
rose to his feet. 

“ And we are much obliged, sir, too, sir,” —said 
Akim also,—“ for the entertainment, that is to 
say; but now we wish you good night, sir. Rise, 
Avdotyushka.” 

Avdotya rose, as though reluctantly, and after 
her Naum rose also . . . . and all dispersed. 

The landlord and landlady betook themselves 
to the small, closet-like room which served them 
as a bedroom. Akim set to snoring instantly. 
Avdoétya could not get to sleep for a long time. 
... At first she lay still, with her face turned 
to the wall, then she began to toss about on the 
hot feather-bed, now throwing off, now drawing 


276 


THE INN 


up the coverlet . . . . then she fell into a light 
doze. All of a sudden, a man’s loud voice re- 
sounded in the yard; it was singing some slow but 
not mournful song, the words of which could not 
be distinguished. Avdétya opened her eyes, 
raised herself on her elbow, and began to listen. 
--. The song still went on... . It poured 
forth sonorously on the autumnal air. 

Akim raised his head. 

“ Who ’s that singing? ”’—he inquired. 

“ T don’t know,” —she replied. 

“He sings well,’—he added, after a brief 
pause.—“ Well. What a strong voice. I used to 
sing in my day,’—he continued,—“‘ and I sang 
well, but my voice is ruined. But that ’s a fine 
singer. It must be that young fellow singing. 
Natm is his name, I think.”—And he turned 
over on his other side—drew a deep breath, and 
fell asleep again. 

The voice did not cease for a long time there- 
after. . . . Avddtya continued to listen and lis- 
ten; at last it suddenly broke off short, as it were, 
then uttered one more wild shout, and slowly died 
away. Avdotya crossed herself, and laid her head 
on the pillow. . . . Half an hour elapsed... . 
She raised herself and began softly to get out of 
beds}. . 

“Whither art thou going, wife?”—Akim 
asked her through his sleep. 

She stopped short. 


277 


THE INN 


“ To adjust the shrine-lamp,” '—she answered; 
“somehow or other I can’t sleep.” 

“Thou hadst better say thy prayers,’—stam- 
mered Akim as he fell asleep. 

Avdotya went to the shrine-lamp, began to ad- 
just it, and incautiously extinguished it; she re- 
turned and lay down in bed. Silence reigned. 

Early on the following morning the merchant 
set out on his way with his companions. Avdotya 
was sleeping. Akim escorted them for about 
half a verst; he was obliged to go to the mill. 
On returning home he found his wife already 
dressed, and no longer alone; with her was the 
young fellow of the previous evening, Natm. 
They were standing by the table, near the win- 
dow, and talking together. On catching sight 
of Akim, Avdotya silently left the room, but 
Naum said that he had returned for his master’s 
mittens, which the latter had forgotten on the 
bench, and he also left the room. 

We shall now inform our readers of that which 
they, no doubt, have already divined without our 
aid: Avdotya had fallen passionately in love with 
Naum. How this could come to pass so quickly, 
it is difficult to explain; it is all the more difficult, 
in that, up to that time, she had behaved in an 
irreproachable manner, notwithstanding numer- 
ous opportunities and temptations to betray her 

1It is customary to have a holy picture, with a shrine-lamp filled 
with olive-oil burning before it, in bedrooms. —TRansLaTor. 
278 


THE INN 


marital vows. Later on, when her relations with 
Naum became public, many persons in the coun- 
tryside declared that on that very first evening 
he had put some magic herb into her tea (peo- 
ple with us still believe firmly in the efficacy of 
this method), and that this was very readily to be 
discerned in Avdotya, who, they said, very soon 
thereafter began to grow thin and bored. 

However that may be, at all events Naum be- 
gan to be frequently seen at Akim’s inn. First, 
he journeyed past with that same merchant, but 
three months later he made his appearance alone, 
with his own wares; then a rumour became cur- 
rent that he had taken up his residence in one 
of the near-by towns of the county, and from that 
time forth not a week passed that his stout, 
painted cart, drawn by a pair of plump horses 
which he drove himself, did not make its appear- 
ance on the highway. 

There was no great friendship between him and 
Akim, but no hostility between them was appar- 
ent; Akim paid no great attention to him, and 
knew nothing about him, except that he was an 
intelligent young fellow, who had started out 
boldly. He did not suspect Avdétya’s real feel- 
ings, and continued to trust her as before. 

Thus passed two years more. 

Then, one summer day, before dinner, about 
one o'clock, Lizavéta Prékhorovna, who precisely 
during the course of those two years had some- 

279 


THE INN 


how suddenly grown wrinkled and sallow, de- 
spite all sorts of massage, rouge, and powder,— 
Lizavéta Prokhoroyna, with her lap-dog and her 
folding parasol, strolled forth for a walk in her 
neat little German park. Lightly rustling her 
starched gown, she was walking with minc- 
ing steps along the sanded path, between two 
rows of dahlas drawn up in military array, 
when suddenly she was overtaken by our old 
acquaintance, Kirillovna, who respectfully an- 
nounced that a certain merchant from B*** de- 
sired to see her on a very important matter. 
Kirfllovna, as of yore, enjoyed the mistress’s 
favour (in reality, she managed the estate of 
Madame Kuntze), and some time previously had 
received permission to wear a white mob-cap, 
which imparted still more harshness to the thin 
features of her swarthy face. 

‘A merchant? ”’—inquired the lady. ‘‘ What 
does he want?” 

“ [T don’t know, ma’am, what he wants,’ —re- 
plied Kirfllovna in a wheedling voice;—“ but, 
apparently, he wishes to purchase something 
from you, ma’am.” 

Lizavéta Prokhorovna returned to the draw- 
ing-room, seated herself in her customary place, 
an arm-chair with a canopy, over which ivy me- 
andered prettily, and ordered the merchant from 
B*** to be summoned. 

Natim entered, made his bow, and halted at 
the door. 


280 


THE INN 


“T have heard that you wish to buy something 
from me,’—began Lizavéta Prékhorovna, and 
thought to herself the while:—‘“‘ What a hand- 
some man this merchant is! ” 

*“ Exactly so, ma’am.” 

“ And precisely what is it?” 

“Will you not deign to sell your inn?” 

“What inn?” 

“Why, the one which stands on the highway, 
not far from here.” 

“ But that inn does not belong to me. That is 
Akim’s inn.” 

“Why is n’t it yours? It stands on your land, 
ma’am.” 

“ Assuming that the land is mine... . bought 
in my name; still the inn is his.” 

“ Just so, ma’am. So then, won’t you sell it 
to us, ma’am?”’ 

“T am to sell it?” 

“ Just so, ma’am. And we would pay a good 
price for it.” 

Lizavéta Prokhorovna maintained silence for 
a while. 

“Really, this is strange,”—she began again; 
“what are you saying? But how much would you 
give?”’—she added.—“ That is to say, I am not 
asking for myself, but for Akim.” 

“Why, with all the buildings and, ma’am, de- 
pendencies, ma’am . . . well . . . and, of course, 
with the land attached to the inn, we would give 
two thousand rubles, ma’am.” 


281 


THE INN 


“Two thousand rubles! That ’s very little,” 
—replied Lizavéta Prokhorovna. 

‘“ That ’s the proper price, ma’am.” 

“ But, have you talked it over with Akim?” 

‘“ Why should we talk with him, ma’am? The 
inn is yours, so we have thought best to discuss 
it with you, ma’am.” 

“But I have already told you... . really, 
this is astonishing! How is it that you do not 
understand me?” 

“Why don’t we understand, ma'am? We 
do.” 

Lizavéta Prékhorovna looked at Naim, Naim 
looked at Lizavéta Prokhorovna. 

‘““ How is it to be, then, ma’am?’’—he began: 
—‘ what proposal have you to make on your side, 
that is to say, ma’am?” 

“On my side... .” Lizavéta Prékhorovna 
fidgeted about in her easy-chair.—“ In the first 
place, I tell you that two thousand is not enough, 
and in the second place... .” 

“We ’ll add a hundred, if you like.” 

Lizavéta Prokhorovna rose. 

“TI see that you are talking at cross-purposes, 
and I have already told you that I cannot and 
will not sell that inn. I cannot... . that is to 
say, I will not.” 

Natim smiled and made no reply for a while. 

“Well, as you like, ma’am ... .” he remarked, 
with a slight shrug of the shoulders;—“ I will 

282 





THE INN 


bid you good-day, ma’am.”—And he made his 
_ bow, and grasped the door-handle. 

Lizavéta Prokhorovna turned toward him. 

“ However, . . . . ” she said, with barely per- 
ceptible hesitation,—‘“‘ you need not go just yet.” 
—She rang the bell; Kirillovna made her appear- 
ance from the boudoir. 

“ Kirillovna, order the servants to give the mer- 
chant tea.—I will see you later on,” —she added, 
with a slight inclination of her head. 

Naum bowed again, and left the room in com- 
pany with Kirillovna. 

Lizavéta Prékhorovna paced up and down the 
room a couple of times, then rang the bell again. 
This time a page entered. She ordered him to 
summon Kirillovna. In a few moments Kiril- 
fovna entered, with barely a squeak of her new 
goat’s-leather shoes. 

“ Didst thou hear,’—began Lizavéta Prékho- 
rovna, with a constrained smile,—‘‘ what that 
merchant is proposing tome? Such a queer man, 
really!” 

“No, ma’am, I did n’t hear. . . . What is it, 
ma’am?”— And Kirillovna slightly narrowed her 
little, black, Kalmyk eyes. 

“ He wants to buy Akim’s inn from me.” 

“ And what of that, ma’am? ” 

“Why, seest thou . . . . But how about 
Akim? I have given it to Akim.” 

“ And, good gracious, my lady, what is it you 

283 


THE INN 


are pleased to say? Isn’tthatinn yours? Are n’t 
we your property, pray? And everything we 
have,—is n’t that also the property of the mis- 
tress?” 

“Mercy me, what’s that thou ’rt saying, Ki- 
rillovna? ”—Lizavéta Proékhorovna got out her 
batiste handkerchief and nervously blew her nose. 
— Akim bought that inn out of his own money.” 

“Out of his own money? And where did he 
get that money?— Was n’t it through your kind- 
ness? And, then, see how long he has enjoyed 
the use of the land... . Surely, all this is through 
your kindness. And do you think, madam, that 
even so he will not have more money left? Why, 
he ’s richer than you are, as God is my witness, 
ma’am!” 

* All that is so, of course, but, nevertheless, I 
cannot. . . . How am I to sell that inn?” 

“ But why not sell it, ma’am?’’—went on Ki- 
rillovna.—“ Luckily, a purchaser has turned up. 
Permit me to inquire, ma’am, how much does he 
offer you?” 

“Over two thousand rubles,’—said Lizavéta 
Proékhorovna, softly. 

“He ‘ll give more, madam, if he offers two 
thousand at the first word. And you can set- 
tle with Akim afterward; you can reduce his quit- 
rent, I suppose.— He will still be grateful.” 

“Of course, his quit-rent must be reduced. 
But no, Kirillovna; how can I sell? .. .” And 


284 


Snanetenstietttie am 


THE INN 


Lizavéta Préokhorovna paced up and down the 
room. . . . “ No, it is impossible; it is n’t right; 

no; please say no more to me about it .. . 
or I shall get angry. A 

But in spite of the prohibition of the excited 
Lizavéta Proékhorovna, Kirillovna continued to 
talk, and half an hour later she returned to 
Natim, whom she had left in the butler’s pantry 
with the samovar. 

“What have you to tell me, my most re- 
spected?”’—said Natm, foppishly turning his 
empty cup upside down on his saucer. 

“This is what I have to tell you,’ —returned 
Kirillovna:—“ that you are to go to the mistress; 
she bids you come.” 

“TI obey, ma’am,”—replied Natim, rising, and 
followed Kirillovna to the drawing-room. 

The door closed behind them. . . . When, at 
last, that door opened again and Naum backed 
out of it bowing, the matter was already settled; 
Akim’s inn belonged to him; he had acquired it 
for two thousand eight hundred rubles in bank- 
bills.1. They had decided to complete the deed 
of sale as promptly as possible, and not to an- 
nounce the sale until that was accomplished; 
Lizavéta Proékhorovna had received one hundred 
rubles as deposit, and two hundred rubles went to 
Kirfllovna as commission. 


1 The difference in value between paper and silver money was con- 
siderable in those days, and the sort of currency is generally specified, 
— TRANSLATOR. 


285 


THE INN 


“T have got it at a bargain,’ —thought Naum, 
as he climbed into his cart; “I ’m glad it turned 
out well.” 

At that very time, when the bargain which we 
have described was being effected at the manor- 
house, Akim was sitting alone on the wall-bench 
under the window, in his own room, and stroking 
his beard with an air of displeasure. ... We 
have stated above that he did not suspect his 
wife’s fondness for Natm, although kind persons 
had, more than once, hinted to him that it was 
high time for him to listen to reason; of course, 
he himself was sometimes able to observe that 
his housewife, for some time past, had become 
more restive; but then, all the world knows that 
the female sex is vain and capricious. Even when 
it really seemed to him that something was wrong, 
he merely waved it from him; he did not wish, as 
the saying is, to raise a row; his good-nature had 
not diminished with the years, and, moreover, 
indolence was making itself felt. But on that day 
he was very much out of sorts; on the previous 
evening he had unexpectedly overheard on the 
street a conversation between his maid-servant 
and another woman, one of his neighbours. .. . 

The woman had asked his maid-servant why 
she had not run in to see her on the evening of 
the holiday. “ I was expecting thee,” she said. 

“Why, I would have come,’—replied the 
maid-servant,—“ but, shameful to say, I caught 

286 





THE INN 


the mistress at her capers... . bad luck to 
her!” 

“Thou didst catch her . repeated the 
peasant-wife in a peculiarly-drawling tone, prop- 
ping her cheek on her hand.—‘* And where didst 
thou catch her, my mother?” 

“Why, behind the hemp-patches—the priest’s 
hemp-patches. The mistress, seest thou, had gone 
out to the hemp-patches to meet that fellow of 
hers, that Natim, and I could n’t see in the dark, 
whether because of the moonlight, or what not, 
the Lord knows, and so I ran right against them.” 

“Thou didst run against them,’—repeated 
the peasant-wife again.—“ Well, and what was 
she doing, my mother? Was she standing with 
him?” 

“She was standing, right enough. He was 
standing and she was standing. She caught 
sight of me, and says she: ‘ Whither art thou 
running to? Take thyself off home.’ So I went.” 

“Thou wentest.”—The peasant-wife was si- 
lent for a space.—“ Well, good-bye, Fetiniu- 
shka,”—she said, and went her way. 

This conversation had produced an unpleasant 
effect on Akim. His love for Avdotya had al- 
ready grown cold, but, nevertheless, the maid- 
servant’s words displeased him. And she had 
told the truth: as a matter of fact, Avdotya had 
gone out that evening to meet Naum, who had 
waited for her in the dense shadow which fell 


287 


99 


THE INN 


upon the road from the tall and motionless hemp- 
patch. ‘The dew had drenched its every stalk 
from top to bottom; the scent, powerful to 
the point of oppressiveness, lay all around. The 
moon had only just risen, huge and crimson, in 
the dim and the blackish mist. Natim had heard 
Avdotya’s hasty footsteps from afar, and had ad- 
vanced to meet her. She reached him all pale 
with running; the moon shone directly in her face. 

“Well, how now; hast thou brought it? ”—he 
asked her. 

“Yes, I have,’’—she replied in an irresolute 
tone:—“ but, Naim Ivdnovitch, what... .” 

“Give it here, if thou hast brought it,’—he 
interrupted her, stretching out his hand. 

She drew from beneath her kerchief on her 
neck some sort of packet. Natm instantly 
grasped it and thrust it into his breast. 

“Naum _ = Ivanitch,’—enunciated Avddotya, 
slowly, and without taking her eyes from him. 
.. + Okh, Naum Ivanitch, I am ruining my 
soul for thee:|\.\.: <7 

At that moment the maid-servant had come 
upon them. 

So, then, Akim was sitting on the wall-bench 
and stroking his beard with his dissatisfaction. 
Avdotya kept entering the house and leaving it. 
He merely followed her with his eyes. At last 
she entered yet again, and taking a warm wadded 
jacket from the little room, she was already cross- 

288 


THE INN 


ing the threshold; but he could endure it no 
longer, and began to talk, as though to himself: 

“ T wonder,’—he began,—“ what makes these 
women-folks always so fidgety? That they 
should sit still in one spot is something that can’t 
be demanded of them. That’s no affair of theirs. 
But what they do love is to be running off some- 
where or other, morning or evening.— Yes.” 

Avydotya heard her husband’s speech out to the 
end without changing her attitude; only, at the 
word “ evening,” she moved her head a mere tri- 
fle, and seemed to become thoughtful. 

“ Well, Semyonitch,’—she said at last, with 
irritation, —‘“‘ ’t is well known that when thou be- 
ginnest to talk, why... .” 

She waved her hand and departed, slamming 
the door behind her. Avdotya did not, in fact, 
hold Akim’s eloquence in high esteem, and it 
sometimes happened, when he undertook of an 
evening to argue with the travellers, or began to 
tell stories, she would yawn quietly or walk out 
of the room. Akim stared at the closed door. 
“When thou beginnest to talk,” he repeated in 
anoundertone...). “that .’s exactly 1; that 
have talked very little with thee. . . . And who 
art thou? My equal, and, moreover....” And 
he rose, meditated, and dealt himself a blow on 
the nape of his neck with his clenched fist. . . 

A few days passed after this day in a de- 
cidedly queer manner. Akim kept on staring at 

289 


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his wife, as though he were preparing to say 
something to her; and she, on her side, darted 
suspicious glances at him; moreover, both of them 
maintained a constrained silence; this silence, 
however, was generally broken by some snappish 
remark from Akim about some neglect in the 
housekeeping, or on the subject of women in 
general; Avdotya, for the most part, did not an- 
swer him with a single word. But, despite all 
Akim’s good-natured weakness, matters would 
infallibly have come to a decisive explanation be- 
tween him and Avdotya had it not been for the 
fact that, at last, an incident occurred, after which 
all explanations would have been superfluous. 

Namely, one morning, Akim and his wife were 
just preparing to take a light meal after the 
noon hour (there was not a single traveller in the 
inn, after the summer labours), when suddenly 
a small cart rumbled energetically along the 
road, and drew up at the porch. Akim glanced 
through the small window, frowned, and dropped 
his eyes; from the cart, without haste, Naum 
alighted. Avdotya did not see him, but when 
his voice resounded in the anteroom, the spoon 
trembled weakly in her hand. WHe ordered 
the hired man to put his horse in the yard. At 
last the door flew wide open, and he entered 
the room. 

“ Morning,” —he said, and doffed his cap. 

“ Morning,’—repeated Akim_ through his 
teeth.—“* Whence has God brought thee? ” 

290 


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“From the neighbourhood,’—returned the 
other, seating himself on the wall-bench.—* I 
come from the lady-mistress.”’ 

“Fyrom the mistress,’—said Akim, still not 
rising from his seat.—‘“ On business, pray?” 

“ Yes, on business. Avdotya Aréfyevna, our 
respects to you.” 

“ Good morning, Natm,’’—she replied. 

All remained silent for a space. 

‘““ What have you there—some sort of porridge, 
I suppose?”’—began Naum... . 

“Yes, porridge,’—retorted Akim, and sud- 
denly paled:—“ but it is n’t for thee.” 

Natim darted a glance of astonishment at 
Akim. 

“Why is n’t it for me?” 

“Why, just because it is n't for thee.”— 
Akim’s eyes began to flash, and he smote the 
table with his fist.—‘“‘ There is nothing in my 
house for thee, dost hear me?” 

“What ails thee, Semyonitch, what ails thee? 
What ’s the matter with thee? ” 

“ There ’s nothing the matter with me, but I’m 
tired of thee, Naim Ivanitch, that’s what.” —The 
old man rose to his feet, trembling all over.— 
“Thou hast taken to haunting my house alto- 
gether too much, that ’s what.” 

Naum also rose to his feet. 

“Thou hast gone crazy, brother, I do believe,” 
—he said with a smile.—‘‘ Avdétya Aréfyevna, 
what ’s the matter with him?” .. . 

291 


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“T tell thee,’—yelled Akim, in a quivering 
voice,—“ get out. Dost hear me?.... What hast 
thou to do with Avdotya Aréfyevna? .... Be- 
gone, I tell thee! Dost hear me?” 

“What ’s that thou art saying to me?” —in- 
quired Naum, significantly. 

“Take thyself away from here; that ’s what 
I ’m saying to thee. There is God, and there is 
the threshold . . . . dost understand? or ’*t will 
be the worse for thee!” 

Natm strode forward. 

“Good heavens, don’t fight, my dear little 
doves,’—stammered Avdotya, who until then 
had remained sitting motionless at the table... . 

Natm cast a glance at her. 

“Don’t worry, Avdotya Aréfyevna, why 
should we fight! Ek-sta, brother,”’—he con- 
tinued, addressing Akim:—“ thou hast deafened 
me with thy yells. Really. What an inso- 
lent fellow thou art! Did any one ever hear of 
- such a thing as expelling a man from another 
man’s house,’—added Natim, with deliberate 
enunciation :—‘“‘ and the master of the house, into 
the bargain?” 

“What dost thou mean by another man’s 
house? ”’—muttered Akim.—“‘ What master of 
the house? ”’ 

“Why, me, for example.” 

And Naum screwed up his eyes, and displayed 
his white teeth in a grin. 

292 


ii 


THE INN 


“Thee, forsooth? Ain’t I the master of the 
house?” 

“What a stupid fellow thou art, my good 
fellow.—I am the master of the house, I tell 
thee.” 

Akim opened his eyes to their widest. 

“ What nonsense is that thou art prating, as 
though thou hadst eaten mad-wort?’’—he said 
at last.—‘* How the devil dost thou come to be 
the master? ”’ 

“Well, what ’s the use of talking to thee,’ — 
shouted Naum, impatiently.—‘ Dost see this 
document,” —he added, jerking out of his pocket 
a sheet of stamped paper folded in four:—*“ dost 
see it?) This is a deed of sale, understand, a deed 
of sale for thy land, and for the inn; I have 
bought them from the landed proprietress, Liza- 
véta Prokhorovna. We signed the deed of sale 
yesterday, in B***—consequently, I am the mas- 
ter here, not thou. Gather up thy duds this very 
day,’ —he added, putting the paper back in his 
pocket ;—“‘ and let there be not a sign of thee here 
by to-morrow; hearest thou?” 

Akim stood as though he had been struck by 
lightning. 

“ Brigand!”’—he moaned at last;—“ the brig- 
and. . . Hey, Fédka, Mitka, wife, wife, seize 
him, seize him—hold him!” 

He had completely lost his wits. 

“Took out, look out,’—ejaculated Natm, 

293 


THE INN 


menacingly:—“ look out, old man, don’t play the 
Boal. o's" ae 

‘“ But beat him, beat him, wife! ”?—Akim kept 
repeating in a tearful voice, vainly and impo- 
tently trying to leave his place.—“ The soul- 
ruiner, the brigand. . . She was n’t enough for 
thee . . . thou wantest to take my house away 
from me also, and everything. . . . But no, stay 


"0. thaticannot be.) ... .) I willogo myseliae 
will tell her myself ... how... . but why 
scllniet MStoOp cee stopa 63 


And he rushed hatless into the street. 

“Whither art thou running, Akim Ivanitch, 
whither art thou running, dear little father? ”— 
cried the maid-servant Fetinya, who collided with 
him in the doorway. 

“To the mistress! let me go! To the mis- 
tress. . . .” roared Akim, and catching sight of 
Natim’s cart, which the servants had not yet had 
time to put in the stable-yard, he sprang into it, 
seized the reins, and lashing the horse with all 
his might, he set off at a gallop to the lady’s 
manor-house. 

“Dear little mother, Lizavéta Prokhorovyna,” 
—he kept repeating to himself all the way,— 
‘““why such unkindness? I have shown zeal, me- 
thinks!” 

And, in the meantime, he kept on beating the 
horse. Those who met him drew aside and gazed 
long after him. 

294 





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In a quarter of an hour Akim had reached 
Lizavéta Prékhorovna’s manor, had dashed up 
to the porch, had leaped from the cart, and burst 
straight into the anteroom. 

“What dost thou want? ’’—muttered the star- 
tled footman, who was sweetly dozing on the 
locker. 

‘“« The mistress—I must see the mistress,” vocif- 
erated Akim loudly. 

The lackey was astounded. 

“ Has anything happened?” —he began. 

‘Nothing has happened, but I must see the 
mistress.” 

“What, what?”’—said the lackey, more and 
more astounded, straightening himself up. 

Akim recovered himself. . . It was as though 
he had been drenched with cold water. 

“* Announce to the mistress, Piétr Evgrafitch,” 
—he said, with a low obeisance,—“ that Akim 
wishes to see her. . . .” 

Paaeods.d OL «will got...) 2) onl 
nounce thee . . . . but evidently thou art 
drunk. Wait,”—grumbled the lackey, and with- 
drew. 

Akim dropped his eyes and became confused, 
as it were. . . . His boldness had swiftly aban- 
doned him from the very moment he had entered 
the anteroom. 

Lizavéta Prékhoroyvna was also disconcerted 
when Akim’s arrival was announced to her. She 


295 


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immediately gave orders that Kirillovna should 
be called to her in her boudoir. 

“TI cannot receive him,’’—she said hurriedly, 
as soon as the latter made her appearance;—“ I 
cannot possibly do it. What can I say to him? 
Did n’t I tell thee that he would be sure to come 
and would complain? ’’—she added, with vexa- 
tion and agitation;—“I said so... .” 

“Why should you receive him, ma’am?”— 
calmly replied Kirillovna;—* that is not neces- 
sary, ma’am. Why should you disturb yourselr, 
pray?” 

“ But what am I to do?” 

“Tf you will permit me, I will talk with him.” 

Lizavéta Prokhorovna raised her head. 

“Pray, do me the favour, Kirillovna. Do talk 


with him. Do thou tell him... . there—well, 
that I found it necessary ... and, moreover, 
that I will make it up to him . . . . well, there 


now, thou knowest what to say. Pray, do, Kiril- 
lovna.” 

“Please do not fret, madam,”—returned Ki- 
rillovna, and withdrew, with squeaking shoes. 

A quarter of an hour had not elapsed when 
their squeaking became audible again, and Ki- 
rillovna entered the boudoir with the same com- 
posed expression on her face, with the same 
crafty intelligence in her eyes. 

“ Well,’ —inquired her mistress,—“ how about 
Akim?” 

296 


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“°T is all right, ma’am. He says, ma’am, that 
everything is in your power, he submits himself 
wholly to the will of your Graciousness, and if 
only you keep well and prosperous, he will for- 
ever be satisfied with his lot.” 

“ And he made no complaint?” 

“None whatever, ma’am. What was there 
for him to complain about?” 

‘“ But why did he come, then? ”—said Lizavéta 
Prokhoroyna, not without some surprise. 

“Why, he came to ask, ma’am, until he receives 
compensation, whether you will not be so gracious 
as to remit his quit-rent for the coming year, that 
OT) ra 

“Of course I will! I will remit it,’—put 
in Lizavéta Prékhorovna, with vivacity;—“ of 
course. And, tell him, in general terms, that I 
will reward him. Well, I thank thee, Kirillovna. 
And he is a good peasant, I see. Stay,’’—she 
added:—‘“‘ here, give him this from me.”—And 
she took out of her work-table a three-ruble bill.— 
“Here, take this and give it to him.” 

“T obey, ma’am,’—replied Kirillovna, and 
coolly returning to her own room, she coolly 
locked up the bank-bill in an iron-bound casket 
which stood by the head of her bed; she kept in 
it all her ready money, and the amount was not 
small. 

Kirfllovna by her report had soothed her lady, 
but the conversation between her and Akim had, 


297 





THE INN 


in reality, not been precisely as she represented 
it, but to wit: she had ordered him to be sum- 
moned to her in the maids’ hall. At first he re- 
fused to go to her, declaring that he did not wish 
to see Kiritllovna, but Lizavéta Prékhorovna her- 
self; nevertheless, at last, he submitted, and 
wended his way through the back door to Kiril- 
lovna. He found her alone. On entering the 
room he came to a halt at once, leaned against the 
wall near the door, and made an effort to speak 
. and could not. 

Kirillovna stared intently at him. 

“Do you wish to see the mistress, Akim Se- 
myonitch? ’’—she began. 

He merely nodded his head. 

“That is impossible, Akim Semyonitch. And 
what is the use? What is done can’t be undone, 
and you will only worry her. She cannot receive 
you now, Akim Semyonitch.” 

“She cannot,’”—he repeated, and paused for 
a space.—“ Then how is it to be,’—he said at 
last;—“ that means that I must lose my house?” 

“ Hearken, Akim Semyonitch. I know that 
you have always been a reasonable man. This is 
the mistress’s will. And it cannot be changed. 
You cannot alter it. There is nothing for you 
and me to discuss, for it will lead to no result. 
Is n't that so?” 

Akim put his hands behind his back. 

*“ But you had better consider,’—went on Ki- 


298 


THE INN 


rillovna,—‘“‘ whether you ought not to ask the 
mistress to remit your quit-rent, had n’t you?.. .” 

“That means that I must lose the house,’ -— 
repeated Akim, in the same tone as before. 

“ Akim Semyonitch, I’ve told you already 
*t is impossible to change that. You know that 
yourself even better than I do.” 

“Yes. But tell me, at any rate, how much 
my inn sold for?” 

“ I don’t know that, Akim Semyonitch; I can’t 
tell you. . . . But why do you stand there? ”’— 
she added.—“ Sit down. . . .” 

“T ll stand as I am, ma’am. I’m a peasant. 
I thank you humbly.” 

“Why do you say that you are a peasant, 
Akim Semyonitch? You are the same as a mer- 
chant; you cannot be compared even with the 
house-serfs; why do you say that? Don’t decry 
yourself without cause. Won’t you have some 
fea?” 

“No, thanks; I don’t require it. And so my 
dear little house has become your property,” — 
he added, quitting the wall.—‘ Thanks for that, 
also. I will bid you good day, my little madam.” 

Thereupon he wheeled round, and left the 
room. Kirillovna smoothed down her apron, and 
betook herself to her mistress. 

“ So it appears that I actually have become a 
merchant,’—said Akim to himself, as he paused 
in thought before the gate.—“ A fine merchant! ”’ 

299 


THE INN 


He waved his hand and laughed a bitter laugh. 
—‘* Well, I might as well go home!” 

And utterly oblivious of Natim’s horse, which 
he had driven thither, he trudged along the road 
to the inn. Before he had covered the first verst, 
he heard the rattle of a cart alongside of him. 

“ Akim, Akim Semyonitch! ”—some one called 
to him. 

He raised his eyes and beheld his acquaintance, 
the chanter of the parish church, Efrém, nick- 
named “The Mole,” a small, round-shouldered 
man, with a sharp-pointed little nose, and pur- 
blind eyes. He was sitting in a rickety little cart 
on a whisp of straw, with his breast leaning on 
the driver’s seat. 

“ Art thou on thy way home, pray? ”—he asked 
Akim. 

Akim halted. 

ples ad 

“T ‘ll drive you there,—shall I?” 

“ All right, do.” 

Efrém moved aside, and Akim clambered into 
the cart. Efrém, who was jolly with drink, it 
appeared, set to lashing his miserable little nag 
with the ends of his rope reins; the horse advanced 
at a weary trot, incessantly twitching her un- 
bridled muzzle. 

They drove about a verst, without saying one 
word to each other. Akim sat with bowed head, 

300 


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and Efrém merely mumbled something to him- 
self, now stimulating the horse to greater speed, 
now reining it in. 

“Whither hast thou been without a hat, Semy6- 
nitch?””—he suddenly asked Akim, and, without 
waiting for a reply, he went on in an undertone: 
—“thou hast left it in a nice little dram-shop, 
that ’s what. Thou ’rt a tippler; I know thee, 
and I love thee because thou art a tippler—’t was 
high time, long ago, to place thee under ecclesi- 
astical censure, God is my witness; because ’t is 
a bad business. . . . Hurrah! ’’—he shouted sud- 
denly, at the top of his lungs,—“ hurrah! hur- 
rah! ” 

“ Halt! halt!”—rang out a woman’s voice 
close at hand.—“ Halt!” 

Akim glanced round. Across the fields, in the 
direction of the cart, a woman was running, so 
pale and dishevelled that he did not recognise her 
at first. 

“ Halt, halt!’’—she moaned again, panting 
and waving her arms. 

Akim shuddered: it was his wife. 

He seized the reins. 

“And why should we halt?’’—muttered 
Efrém;—‘“ why should we halt for a female? 
Get u-uup!” 

But Akim jerked the horse abruptly on its 
haunches. 

301 


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At that moment Avdotya reached the road, 
and fairly tumbled headlong, face downward, in 
the dust. 

“ Dear little father, Akim Semyonitch,’—she 
shrieked;—“ he has actually turned me out of 
doors!” 

Akim gazed at her, and did not move, but 
merely drew the reins still more taut. 

“ Hurrah!”’—cried Efrém again. 

“And so he has turned thee out?’’—said 
Akim. 

“He has, dear little father, my dear little 
dove,” replied Avdétya, sobbing.—“ He has 
turned me out, dear little father. ‘ The house is 
mine now, says he; ‘ so get out,’ says he.” 

“Capital, that ’s just fine . . . capital! ’—re- 
marked Efrém. 

“And thou wert counting on remaining, I 
suppose? ”’—said Akim, bitterly, as he continued 
to sit in the cart. 

“ Remain, indeed! Yes, dear little father,’ — 
put in Avdotya, who had raised herself on her 
knees, and again beat her brow against the 
ground;—“ for thou dost not know, seest thou, 
I... . Kill me, Akim Semyonitch, kill me here, 
onthe! spotsiet. 27 

“Why should I beat thee, Aréfyevna! ”—re- 
plied Akim, dejectedly :—“ thou hast vanquished 
thyself! what more is there to say?” 

“But what wilt thou think, Akim Semy6o- 


302 





THE INN 


nitch. . . .. Why, the money ....:, .,.was.,thy 
money... . It is gone, thy money. .. For I took 
it, accursed that I am, I got it from the cellar. 
... . I gave it all to that man, that villain, that 


Natim, accursed creature that I am!... And 
why didst thou tell me where thou hadst hidden 
thy money, wretched being that lam! .. . . For 


he bought the inn with thy money . . . . the vil- 
lean 

Sobs drowned her voice. 

Akim clutched his head with both hands. 

“What! ”’—he screamed at last;—“ and so all 
the money too . . . the money, and the inn, thou 
hast. . . . Ah! thou hast got it from the cellar 
. ... from the cellar. . . . Yes, I will kill thee, 
thou brood of vipers! .. .” 

And he leaped from the cart... . 

“ Semyonitch, Semyonitch, don’t beat her, 
don’t fight,’—stammered Efrém, whose intoxi- 
cation began to dissipate at such an unexpected 
event. 

“Yes, dear little father, kill me, kill me, dear 
little father, kill me, the vile creature: beat away, 
don’t heed him!”—shrieked Avdotya, as she 
writhed convulsively at Akim’s feet. 

He stood awhile and stared at her, then re- 
treated a few paces, and sat down on the grass, 
by the roadside. 

A brief silence ensued. Avddtya turned her 
head in his direction. 

303 


THE INN 


“Semyonitch, hey, Semyonitch!”—began 
Efrém, half-rising in the cart;—“ have done with 
that—that will do... for thou canst not re- 
pair the calamity. Phew, what an affair! ””—he 
continued, as though to himself;—“ what a 
damned bad woman. . . Do thou go to him,” — 
he added, bending over the cart-rail toward Av- 
détya;—‘“‘canst not see that he has gone crazy?” 

Avdétya rose, approached Akim and again fell 
at his feet. 

“Dear little father,’—she began in a faint 
voice. 

Akim rose and went back to the cart. She 
clutched the skirt of his kaftan. 

“Get away!”—he shouted fiercely, repulsing 
her. 

“Whither art thou going?” —Efrém asked 
him, perceiving that he was taking his seat again 
beside him. 

“Why, thou didst offer to drive me to the inn,” 
—said Akim:—“ so drive me to thy house... . 
I have none any more, seest thou. They have 
bought it from me, you know.” 

“ Well, all right, let ’s go to my house. And 
how about her?” 

Akim made no answer. 

“And me, me,’ —chimed in Avdotya, weeping; 
—“to whose care dost thou leave me.... 
whither am I to go?” 

“Go to him,’”—returned Akim, without turn- 


304 


THE INN 


ing round:—‘“ to the man to whom thou didst 
carry my money. . . Drive on, Efrém!” 

Efrém whipped up the horse, the cart rolled 
off, and Avdotya set up a shrill scream. . . . 

Efrém lived a verst from Akim’s inn, in a tiny 
cot in the priest’s glebe, disposed around the soli- 
tary five-domed church, which had recently been 
erected by the heirs of a wealthy merchant, in 
conformity with his testamentary dispositions. 
Efrém did not speak to Akim all the way, and 
only shook his head from time to time, uttering 
words of the following nature: “ Akh, thou!” 
and, “ Ekh, thou!’ Akim sat motionless, slightly 
turned away from Efrém. At last they arrived. 
Efrém sprang out first from the cart. A little 
girl of six years in a little chemise girt low ran 
out to meet him, and screamed: 

“ Daddy! daddy!” 

“And where is thy mother?””—Efrém asked 
her. 

‘““ She ’s asleep in the kennel.” 

“ Well, let her sleep. Akim Semyonitch, won't 
you please come into the house?” 

(It must be observed that Efrém addressed 
him as “thou” only when he was intoxicated. 
Far more important persons than he addressed 
Akim as “ you.”’) 

Akim entered the chanter’s cottage. 

“Pray, come hither to the bench,” —said 
Efrém.—‘“ Run along, you little rogues,’’—he 


305 


THE INN 


shouted at three other brats who, along with two 
emaciated cats bespattered with ashes, suddenly 
made their appearance from various corners of 
the room.—“ Run away! Scat! Here, Akim 
Semyonitch, come here,’—he went on, as_ he 
seated his guest:—‘“* and would n’t you like some- 
thing?” 

“What shall I say to thee, Efrém? ”—articu- 
lated Akim at last.—“ Could n’t I have some 
liquor?” 

Efrém gave a start. 

“ Liquor? Certainly. I have none in the house, 
—liquor, that is to say,—but here, I ’ll run at once 
to Father Feddor. He always has some on hand. 
2 2AL Ube: back imal pitty. fret si 

And he snatched up his large-eared cap. 

“ And bring as much as possible; I ‘ll pay for 
it,’—shouted Akim after him.—“TI still have 
money enough for that.” 

“In a jiffy,’ . . . repeated Efrém once 
more, as he disappeared through the door. He 
really did return very speedily with two quart 
bottles under his arm, one of which was already 
uncorked, placed them on the table, got out two 
small green glasses, the heel of a loaf, and salt. 

“That ’s what I love,’—he kept repeating, as 
he seated himself opposite Akim.—‘‘ What ’s the 
use of grieving? ’’—he filled the glasses for both 

. and set to babbling. . . . Avddtya’s beha- 
viour had stunned him.—“’T is an astonishing 
306 


THE INN 


affair, truly,’—said he:—“ how did it come 
about? He must have bewitched her to himself 
by magic .... hey? ‘That ’s what it means, 
that a woman should be strictly watched! She 
ought to have had a tight hand kept over her. 
And yet, it would n’t be a bad thing for you to 
go home; for you must have a lot of property left 
there, I think.”— And to many more speeches of 
the same sort did Efrém give utterance; when he 
was drinking he did not like to hold his tongue. 
An hour later, this is what took place in 
Eifrém’s house. Akim, who had not replied by a 
single word, during the entire course of the drink- 
ing-bout, to the interrogations and comments of 
his loquacious host, and had merely drained glass 
after glass, was fast asleep on the oven, all red 
in the face—in a heavy, anguished slumber; the 
youngsters were wondering at him, while Efrém 
. Alas! Efrém was asleep also, but only in 
a very cramped and cold lumber-room, in which 
he had been locked up by his wife, a woman of 
extremely masculine and robust build. He 
had gone to her in the stable, and had begun to 
threaten her, if she repeated something or other, 
but so incoherently and unintelligibly did he ex- 
press himself that she instantly divined what the 
trouble was, grasped him by the collar, and led 
him to the proper place. However, he slept very 
well and even comfortably in the lumber-room. 
Habit! , 
307 


THE INN 


Kirillovna had not reported her conversation 
with Akim very accurately to Lizavéta Prékho- 
rovna ... . and the same may be said concern- 
ing Avdoétya. Naum had not turned her out of 
the house, although she had told Akim that he 
had done so; he had not the right to expel her. 
. . . He was bound to give the former proprie- 
tors time to move out. Explanations of quite 
another sort had taken place between him and 
Avdotya. When Akim had rushed into the street, 
shouting that he would go to the mistress, Avdo- 
tya had turned to Natim, had stared at him with 
all her eyes, and clasped her hands. 

“O Lord!”—she began;—“ Naim Ivanitch, 
what is the meaning of this? Have you bought 
our inn?” 

“What if I have, ma’am?”—he retorted.— 
“ T have bought it, ma’am.” 

Avdotya said nothing for a while, then sud- 
denly took fright. 

“So that is what you wanted the money for? ” 

“ Precisely as you are pleased to put it, ma’am. 
Ehe, I do believe that measly little husband of 
yours has driven off with my horse,’ —he added, 
as the rumble of wheels reached his ear.—‘‘ What 
a fine dashing fellow he is!” 

“Why, but this is robbery, nothing else! ”’— 
shrieked Avdétya.—‘“* For the money is ours, my 
husband’s, and the inn is ours... .” 

“No, ma'am, Avdotya Aréfyevna,’— Naim 

308 


THE INN 


interrupted her:—“ the inn was n’t yours, and 
what ’s the use of saying so; the inn stood on the 
lady-mistress’s land, so it belonged to her also; 
and the money really was yours, only you were 
so kind, I may put it, as to contribute it to me, 
ma’am; and I shall remain grateful to you, and 
shall even, if the occasion arises, return it to 
you,—if I should see my way to it; only, it is n’t 
right that I should strip myself bare. Just judge 
for yourself if that is n’t so.” 

Naum said all this very calmly, and even with 
a slight smile. 

“Good heavens!” — screamed Avdotya;— 
“but what ’s the meaning of this? What is it? 
But how am I to show myself in my husband’s 
sight after this? Thou villain!’’—she added, 
gazing with hatred at Natim’s young, fresh face; 
—“have n’t I ruined my soul for thee, have n’t 
I become a thief for thy sake, hast not thou turned 
us out of doors, thou abominable villain? ! After 
this there is nothing left for me but to put a noose 
about my neck, villain, deceiver, thou destroyer 
Ce mie... . 

And she wept in torrents. . . 

“Pray, don’t worry, Avdotya Aréfyevna,”— 
said Naim;—“ I ’ll tell you one thing; a fellow 
must look out for number one; moreover, that’s 
what the pike is in the sea for, Avdotya Aré- 
fyevna—to keep the carp from getting drowsy.” 

“Where are we to go now, what is to be- 

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come of us?””—stammered Avdotya through her 
tears. 

“That ’s more than I ean tell, ma’am.” 

“ But I'll cut thy throat, thou villain; I will, 
Dayal 24) 057 

“No, you won't do that, Avdotya Aréfyevna; 
what ’s the use of saying that? But I see that it 
will be better for me to go away from here for 
a while, or you will be much upset... . I will 
bid you good day, ma’am, and to-morrow I shall 
return without fail. ... And you will be so 
good as to permit me to send my hired men to 
you to-day,’—he added, while Avdotya con- 
tinued to repeat, through her tears, that she would 
cut his throat and her own also. 

‘““ And yonder they come, by the way,’ —he re- 
marked, looking out of the window. “ Otherwise, 
some catastrophe might happen, which God for- 
bid. . . . Matters will be more tranquil so. Do 
me the favour to get your belongings together 
to-day, ma’am, while they will stand guard over 
you and help you, if you like. I bid you good 
day, ma’am.” 

He bowed, left the room and called his men to 
hin./.-0. 

Avdotya sank down on the wall-bench, then 
laid herself breast down on the table, and began 
to wring her hands, then suddenly sprang to her 
feet, and ran after her husband. . . . We have 
described their meeting. 

310 


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When Akim drove away from her in company 
with Efrém, leaving her alone in the fields, she 
first wept for a long time, without stirring from 
the spot. Having wept her fill, she directed her 
course to the mistress’s manor. It was a bitter 
thing for her to enter the house, and still more 
bitter to show herself in the maids’-hall. All the 
maids flew to greet her with sympathy and ex- 
pressions of regret. At the sight of them, Av- 
détya could not restrain her tears; they fairly 
gushed forth from her red and swollen eyes. 
Completely unnerved, she dropped down on the 
first chair she came to. They ran for Kirilloyna. 
Kirillovna came, treated her very affectionately, 
but would not admit her to see the mistress, any 
more than she had admitted Akim. Avddotya her- 
self did not insist very strongly on seeing Liza- 
véta Prékhorovna; she had come to the manor- 
house solely because she positively did not know 
where to lay her head. 

Kirfllovna ordered the samovar to be prepared. 
For a long time Avdotya refused to drink tea, 
but yielded, at last, to the entreaties and per- 
suasions of all the maids, and after the first cup 
drank four more. When Kirillovna perceived 
that her visitor was somewhat pacified, and only 
shuddered from time to time, sobbing faintly, she 
asked her whither they intended to remove, and 
what they wished to do with their things. This 
question set Avdotya to crying again, and she be- 

311 


THE INN 


gan to asseverate that she wanted nothing more, 
except to die; but Kirillovna, being a woman of 
brains, immediately stopped her and advised her 
to set about transferring her things that very day, 
without useless waste of time, to Akim’s former 
cottage in the village, where dwelt his uncle, that 
same old man who had tried to dissuade him from 
marrying; she announced that, with the mistress’s 
permission, they would be furnished with trans- 
portation, and the aid of people and horses; “ and 
as for you, my dearest,’—added Kirillovna, com- 
pressing her cat-like lips in a sour smile,—“ there 
will always be a place for you in our house, and it 
will be very agreeable to us if you will be our 
guest until you recover yourself and get settled in 
your house. The principal thing is—you must 
not get downcast. The Lord gave, the Lord has 
taken away, and He will give again: everything 
depends on His will. Lizavéta Prékhorovna, of 
course, was obliged to sell your house, according 
to her calculations, but she will not forget you, 
and will reward you; she bade me say so to Akim 
Semyonitch. . . Where is he now?” 

Avdotya replied that, on meeting her, he had 
grossly insulted her, and had driven off to Chan- 
ter Efrém’s. 

“To that creature’s!”’—replied Kaiurillovna, 
significantly.—“ Well, I understand that it is 
painful for him now, and I don’t believe you can 

312 


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hunt him up to-day. What is to be done?’ We 
must take measures, Maldshka,’—she added, 
turning to one of the chambermaids. “ Just ask 
Nikanor [litch to step here; I will have a talk 
with him.” 

Nikanor [litch, a man of very paltry appear- 
ance, who served somewhat in the capacity of 
overseer, immediately presented himself, obsequi- 
ously listened to everything which Kirillovna said 
to him,—remarked: “ It shall be executed,” left 
the room and issued his orders. Avddétya was fur- 
nished with three carts and three peasants; these 
were voluntarily joined by a fourth, who said of 
himself that he would be “ more intelligent than 
they,” and she set off in company with them for 
the inn, where she found her former hired men 
and her maid-servant, Fetinya, in great terror 
and excitement. .. . 

Nawim’s recruits, three extremely robust young 
fellows, had arrived in the morning, and had gone 
nowhere since, but had maintained a very zealous 
guard over the inn, according to Natim’s promise 
—so zealous, that one cart speedily proved to be 
devoid of tires. . . 

Bitter, very bitter was it for poor Avdotya to 
pack up her things. Despite the assistance of the 
“intelligent ” man, who, by the way, knew how to 
do nothing but stalk about with a staff in his 
hand, and watch the others, and spit to one side, 


313 


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she did not succeed in moving out that day, and 
remained to spend the night in the inn, having 
first requested Fetinya not to leave her room; 
but it was not until daybreak that she fell into a 
feverish doze, and the tears streamed down her 
cheeks even in her sleep. 

In the meantime, Efrém awoke earlier than 
was his wont in his lumber-room, and began to 
thump and demand his release. At first his wife 
would not let him out, declaring to him through 
the door that he had not yet had enough sleep; 
but he excited her curiosity by promising to tell 
her about the remarkable thing which had hap- 
pened to Akim; she undid the latech.— Efrém im- 
parted to her everything he knew, and wound up 
with the question: “‘ Was he awake or not? ” 

“Why, the Lord knows,’—replied his wife; 
—“ go and see for thyself; he has not climbed 
down from the oven yet.— You both got pretty 
drunk last night; thou shouldst just see thyself 
—thy face has no semblance of a face; ’t is like 
some sort of ladle; and what a lot of hay has got 
into thy hair!” 

“Never mind if it has,’—returned Efrém,— 
and passing his hand over his head, he entered the 
house.— Akim was no longer asleep; he was sit- 
ting on the oven with his legs dangling; his face 
also was very strange and discomposed. It ap- 
peared all the more distorted because Akim was 
not in the habit of drinking heavily. 


314 


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“Well, how now, Akim Semydénitch, how have 
you slept?”—began Efrém. .. . 

Akim looked at him with a turbid gaze. 

“Come, brother Efrém,’—he said hoarsely,— 
“can’t we do it again—thou knowest what?” 

Efrém darted a swift glance at Akim.... at 
that moment he felt a sort of thrill; that is the 
kind of sensation a sportsman experiences when 
standing on the skirt of the woods, at the sudden 
yelping of his hound in the forest, from which, ap- 
parently, all the wild beasts have already fled. 

“ What—more?’’—he asked at last. 

“Yes; more.” 

‘“ My wife will see,’—thought Efrém,—‘“ and 
I don’t believe she will allow it.”—“ All right, 
it can be done,’—he said aloud;—“ have pa- 
tience.”—He went out and, thanks to artfully 
conceived measures, succeeded in smuggling in 
a huge bottle unperceived beneath the skirt of his 
Coat. ).(... 

Akim seized the bottle... But Efrém did not 
start to drink with him as on the preceding even- 
ing—he was afraid of his wife, and,—having told 
Akim that he would go and see how things were 
progressing at his house, and how his belongings 
were being packed, and whether he were not being 
robbed, —he immediately set off for the inn astride 
of his unfed little nag,—not forgetting himself, 
however, if we may take into consideration his 
projecting bosom. 

315 


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Soon after his departure, Akim fell asleep 
again, and lay like one dead on the oven. . . . He 
did not even wake up—at all events, he showed 
no signs of being awake—when Efrém, returning 
four hours later, began to shove him and try to 
rouse him, and whisper over him some extremely 
indistinct words to the effect that everything was 
gone and transported and the holy pictures were 
gone too, and everything was already over—and 
that every one was hunting for him, but that he, 
Efrém, had taken due measures, and had pro- 
hibited . . . and so forth. But he did not whis- 
per long. His wife led him off to the lumber- 
room again, and herself lay down in the house, 
on the platform over the oven, in great indigna- 
tion at her husband and at the guest, thanks to 
whom her husband had got drunk... . But 
when, on awakening very early, according to her 
wont, she cast a glance at the oven, Akim was 
no longer on it... . The cocks had not yet 
crowed for the second time, and the night was 
still so dark that the sky was barely turning grey 
directly overhead, and at the rim was still com- 
pletely drowned in vapour, when Akim emerged 
from the gate of the chanter’s house. His face 
was pale, but he darted a keen glance around 
him, and his gait did not betray the drunkard. 
_.. He walked in the direction of his former 
dwelling—the inn, which had already definitively 
become the property of its new owner, Naum. 


316 


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Naum was not sleeping either, at the time when 
Akim stealthily quitted Efrém’s house. He was 
not asleep; he was lying completely dressed on the 
wall-bench, with his sheepskin coat rolled up 
under his head. It was not that his conscience 
was tormenting him—no! he had been present 
with astounding cold-bloodedness, from the 
morning on, at the packing and transportation of 
Akim’s household goods, and had more than once 
spoken to Avdétya, who was downcast to such a 
degree that she did not even upbraid him... . 
His conscience was at ease, but divers surmises 
and calculations occupied his mind. He did not 
know whether he was going to make a success of 
his new career; up to that time, he had never kept 
an inn—and, generally speaking, had never even 
had a nook of his own; and so he could not get to 
sleep.—“ This little affair has been begun well,” 
—he thought;—“ what will the future be?” .. . 
When the last cart-load of Akim’s effects had set 
off just before night-fall (Avdotya had followed 
it weeping), he had inspected the entire inn, all 
the stables, cellars, and barns; he had crawled up 
into the attic, had repeatedly ordered his labourers 
to maintain a strict watch, and, when he was left 
alone after supper, he had not been able to get 
to sleep. It so happened that on that day none 
of the travellers stopped to pass the night; and 

‘this pleased him greatly. “I must buy a dog 
without fail to-morrow,—the worst-tempered 


317 


THE INN 


dog I can get, from the miller; for they have 
carried off theirs,’—he said to himself, as he 
tossed from side to side, and, all of a sudden, he 
raised his head hastily. . . . It seemed to him 
as though some one had stolen past under the 
window. . . He listened. . . Nota sound. Only 
a grasshopper shrilled behind the oven, from 
time to time, and a mouse was gnawing some- 
where, and his own breath was audible. All was 
still in the empty room, dimly illuminated by the 
yellow rays of a tiny glass shrine-lamp, which he 
had found time to suspend and light in front of a 
small holy picture in the corner. . . He lowered 
his head; and now again he seemed to hear the 
gate squeaking .... then the wattled hedge 
crackled faintly. . . . He could not endure it, 
leaped to his feet, opened the door into the next 
room, and called in a low tone: “ Feddor, hey, 
Fedédor!”’— No one answered him. . . . He went 
out into the anteroom and nearly fell prone, as 
he stumbled over Feddor, who was sprawling on 
the floor. The labourer stirred, growling in his 
sleep; he shook him. 

“Who ’s there? What ’s wanted? ”— Feddor 
was beginning. .. . 

“What art thou yelling for? Hold thy 
tongue! ”’—articulated Naim in a_ whisper.— 
“The idea of your sleeping, you damned brutes! 
Hast thou not heard anything?” 

““'No,”—replied the man. .. . “ Why?” 

318 


THE INN 


“ And where are the others sleeping?” 

“The others are sleeping where they were 
ordered to. .. . But has anything happened?.. .” 

“ Silence !— Follow me.” 

Naum softly opened the door leading from the 
anteroom into the yard. . . . Out of doors every- 
thing was very dark; . . . it was possible to make 
out the sheds with their pillars only because they 
stood out still more densely black in the midst of 
the black mist... . 

“ Sha’n’t I light a lantern? ”’—said Feddor in 
a low voice. 

But Naum waved his hand and held his breath. 
. . . At first he could hear nothing except those 
nocturnal sounds which one can almost always 
hear in inhabited places: a horse was munching 
oats, a pig grunted once faintly in its sleep, a 
man was snoring somewhere; but suddenly there 
reached his ear a suspicious sort of noise, proceed- 
ing from the extreme end of the yard, close to the 
PEDCEs 65 50; 

It seemed as though some one was moving 
about, and breathing or blowing. . . . Naum 
looked over Feddor’s shoulder, and, cautiously 
descending the steps, walked in the direction of 


the sound. . . . A couple of times he halted, and 
listened, then continued to creep stealthily on- 
ward. . . . Suddenly he gave a start. . . . Ten 


paces from him, in the dense gloom, a point of 
light suddenly glimmered brightly: it was a red- 
319 


THE INN 


hot coal, and beside the coal there showed itself 
for a brief instant the front part of some one’s 
face, with lips puffed out. . . . Swiftly and si- 
lently Naim darted at the light, as a cat darts at 
a mouse. . . . Hastily rising from the ground, 
a long body rushed to meet him, and almost 
knocked him from his feet, almost slipped through 
his hands, but he clung to it with all his might... . 

“ Fedéddor! Andréi! Petriishka! ’’—he shouted, 
at the top of his lungs;—‘‘ come here quick, quick! 
I ’ve caught a thief, an incendiary! ” 

The man whom he had captured struggled 
and resisted .... but Naum did not release 
him. . . . Feddor immediately darted to his as- 
sistance. 

“A lantern, quick, a lantern! Run for a lan- 
tern! wake the others, be quick!’ — Natim shouted 
to him,—“‘ and I ll manage him alone meanwhile 
—I ’ll sit on him. . . Be quick! and fetch a belt 
to bind him with!” 


Feddor flew to the cottage. .. . The man whom 
Natim was holding suddenly ceased his resist- 
ANCE... «3 


“So, evidently, ’t is not enough for thee to 
have taken my wife and my money, and my house, 
but thou art bent on destroying me also,”—he 
saidin a dulltone. .. . 

Natim recognised Akim’s voice. 

“ So ’t is thou, dear little dove,’’—said he;— 
“ good, just wait a bit!” 

320 


THE INN 


“Let me go,”’—said Akim.—“ Art not thou 
satisfied? ” 

“See here, to-morrow I ’ll show you in the 
presence of the judge how satisfied I am. . . .” 
And Naum tightened his hold on Akim. . . . 

The labourers ran up with two lanterns and 
some ropes. . . . “ Bind him! ”’—ordered Natim, 
sharply. . . . The labourers seized Akim, lifted 
him up, and bound his hands behind him. . . . 
One of them was beginning to swear, but on 
recognising the former landlord of the inn, he 
held his peace, and merely exchanged glances 
with the others. 

“ Just see there, see there, now,” — Natm kept 
repeating the while, as he passed the lantern along 
the ground;—“ yonder, there are coals in a pot; 
just look, he has brought a whole firebrand in 
the pot—we must find out where he got that 
pot ... and here, he has broken twigs... . 
And Naum assiduously stamped out the fire with 
his foot.—“ Search him, Feddor!”—he added, 
“and see whether he has anything more about 
him.” 

Feddor searched and felt Akim, who stood 
motionless with his head drooping on his breast, 
like a dead man.—“ There is—here ’s a knife,” — 
said Feddor, drawing an old kitchen-knife from 
Akim’s breast. 

“ Ehe, my dear fellow, so that ’s what thou 
hadst in mind! ”’—exclaimed Natim.—‘“ You are 


321 


THE INN 


witnesses, my lads—see there, he intended to cut 
my throat, to burn up my house. . . . Lock him 
up in the cellar until morning; he can’t get out 
of there... . I will stand watch all night myself, 
and to-morrow at dawn we will take him to the 
chief of police . . . . and you are witnesses, do 
yourbear: 24.) 5? 

They thrust Akim into the cellar, and slammed 
the door behind him. . . . Naum stationed two 
of the labourers there, and did not lie down to 
sleep himself. 

In the meantime, Efrém’s wife, having con- 
vinced herself that her unbidden guest had taken 
himself off, was on the point of beginning her 
cooking, although it was hardly daylight out of 
doors as yet. She squatted down by the oven to 
get some coals, and saw that some one had already 
raked out the live embers thence; then she be- 
thought herself of her knife—and did not find 
it; in conclusion, one of her four pots was miss- 
ing. Efrém’s wife bore the reputation of being 
anything but a stupid woman—and with good 
reason. She stood for a while in thought, then 
went to the lumber-room to her husband. It was 
not easy to arouse him fully—and still more diffi- 
cult was it to make him understand why he had 


been awakened. . . To everything which his wife 
said, Chanter Efrém made one and the same 
reply: 


“ He ’s gone,—well, God be with him... 
822 


THE INN 


but what business is that of mine? He has carried 
off a knife and a pot—well, God be with him— 
but what business is that of mine?” 

But, at last, he rose, and after listening in- 
tently to his wife, he decided that it was a bad 
business, and that it could not be left as it now 
stood. 

“Yes,” —the chanter’s wife insisted,—“ ’t is a 
bad business; I do believe he ’ll do mischief out 
of desperation. . . . I noticed last night that he 
was not asleep as he lay there on the oven; it 
would n’t be a bad idea for thee, Efrém Alexdn- 
dritch, to find out whether... .” 

“See here, Ulyana Feddorovna, I ’Il tell thee 
what,”— began Efrém;—“I ’ll go to the inn 
myself immediately; and do thou be kind, dear 
little mother; give me a little glass of liquor to 
cure me of my drunkenness.” 

Ulyana reflected. 

“Well,” —she decided at last,—“‘ I “ll give thee 
some liquor, Efrém Alexandritch; only look out, 
don’t dally.” 

“ Be at ease, Ulyana Feddorovna.” 

And, having fortified himself with a glass of 
liquor, Efrém set out for the inn. 

Day had but just dawned when he rode up to 
the inn, and at the gate a cart was already stand- 
ing harnessed, and one of Natim’s labourers was 
sitting on the driver’s seat, holding the reins in his 
hands. 

323 


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“Whither art thou going?”—Efrém asked 
him. 

“To town,”—replied the labourer. 

“Why?” 

The labourer merely shrugged his shoulders 
and made no reply. Efrém sprang from his 
horse and entered the house. In the anteroom 
he ran across Naum, fully dressed, and wearing 
a cap. 

“JT congratulate the new landlord on his new 
domicile,’—said Efrém, who was personally ac- 
quainted with him.—“ Whither away so early?” 

“Yes, there is cause for congratulation,’ — 
replied Naum, surlily.—“ This is my first day, 
and I have almost been burnt out.” 

Efrém started.—‘‘ How so?” 

“Why, just that; a kind man turned up, who 
tried to set the house on fire. Luckily, I caught 
him in the act; now I ’m taking him to town.” 

“Tt can’t be Akim, can it?” .... asked 
Efrém, slowly. 

“And how dost thou know? It is Akim. 
He came by night, with a firebrand in a pot, and 
had already crept into the yard, and laid a fire 
.... All my lads are witnesses.— Wouldst like 
to take a look? But, by the way, ’t is high time 
we were carrying him off.” 

“ Dear little father, Naum Ivanitch,’—began 
Efrém,—“ release him; don’t utterly ruin the old 
man. Don’t take that sin on your soul, Naum 

324 


THE INN 


Ivanitch. Just reflect,—the man is desperate, — 
he has lost, you know... . .” 

“Stop that prating!”—Natm_ interrupted 
him.—‘“ The idea! As though I would let him 
go! Why, he would set me on fire again to- 
morrow. 3 

“He will not do it, Naim Ivanitch, believe 
me. Believe me, you yourself will be more at 
ease so—for, you see, there will be inquiries—the 
court—you surely know what I mean.” 

“ Well, and what about the court? I have no- 
thing to fear from the court. . . .” 

“ Dear little father, Naim Ivanitch, how can 
you help fearing the court? .. .” 

“ Eh, stop that; I see that thou art drunk early, 
and to-day is a feast-day, to boot.” 

Efrem suddenly, and quite unexpectedly, fell 
to weeping. 

“I am drunk, but I ’m speaking the truth,’— 
he blurted out.—“ But do you release him, in 
honour of Christ’s festival.” 

“ Come, let ’s be starting, cry-baby.” 

And Natm went out on the porch. . 

“ Forgive him for Avdétya Aréfyevna’s sake,” 
—said Efrém, following him. 

Natim approached the cellar, and threw the 
door wide open. Efrém, with timorous curiosity, 
craned his neck from behind Natim’s back, and 
with difficulty made out Akim in one corner of 
the shallow cellar. The former wealthy house- 


325 





THE INN 


holder, the man respected in all the countryside, 
was sitting with pinioned arms on the straw, like 
a criminal. . . On hearing the noise, he raised his 
head. . . . He seemed to have grown frightfully 
thin in the last two days, especially during the 
last night—his sunken eyes were hardly visible be- 
neath his lofty brow, yellow as wax, his parched 
lips had turned dark ... his whole face had 
undergone a change, and assumed a strange ex- 
pression: both harsh and terrified. 

“Get up and come out,’—said Naum. 

Akim rose, and stepped across the threshold. 

“ Akim Semyonitch,” —roared Efrém,—“ thou 
hast ruined thyself, my dear man!” 

Akim glanced at him in silence. 

“ Tf Thad known why thou didst ask for liquor, 
I would n’t have given it to thee; indeed, I 
would n’t! I do believe I would have drunk it all 
myself! Ekh, Natim Ivanitch,”’—added Efrem, 
seizing Natim by the hand;—“ have mercy on 
him, let him go!” 

“Thou ’rt joking,’—retorted Natm, with a 
grin.—“ Come out, there,’ —he added, again ad- 
dressing Akim. . . “ What art thou waiting 
for? x 

“ Naum Ivanoff,” .... began Akim. 

“What?” 

“ Naum Ivanoff,’—repeated Akim;—“ listen; 
I am guilty; I wanted to punish thee myself; but 
God must judge between thou and me. Thou 


326 


THE INN 


hast taken everything from me, thou knowest that 
thyself—everything, to the very last morsel.— 
Now thou canst ruin me, and this is all I have to 
say to thee: If thou wilt release me now—well! 
let things stand! do thou possess everything! I 
agree, and wish thee all success. And I say to 
thee, as in the presence of God: If thou dost re- 
lease me—thou shalt not regret it. God bless 
chee |) 

Akim shut his eyes, and ceased speaking. 

“ Certainly, certainly,” —retorted Naim;—“ as 
though one could trust thee!” 

“ But thou canst, by God, thou canst! ”’—said 
Efrém; “really, thou canst. I ’m ready to go 
bail for Akim Semyonitch with my head—come 
now, really!” 

“ Nonsense! ’’—exclaimed Natum.—“ Let’s be 
off!” 

Akim looked at him. 

“As thou wilt, Naim Ivanitch. Thou hast 
the power. Only, thou art taking a great deal on 
thy soul. All right, if thou art impatient,—let us 
oS ee 

Natim, in his turn, darted a keen glance at 
Akim. “But it really would be better,”’—he 
thought to himself, “to let him go to the devil! 
Otherwise, folks will devour me alive. There ‘Il 
be no living for Avdotya.” .... While Naim 
was reasoning with himself no one uttered a sin- 
gle word. The labourer on the cart, who could see 


327 


THE INN 


everything through the gate, merely shook his 
head and slapped the reins on the horse’s back. 
The other two labourers stood on the porch and 
also maintained silence. 

“ Come, listen to me, old man,’”’—began Naum: 
—“if I let thee go,—and I forbid these fine fel- 
lows” (he nodded his head in the direction of the 
labourers) “‘ to blab; shall we be quits, thou and I 
—thou understandest me—quits ... . hey?” 

“Possess everything, I say.” 

“Thou wilt not consider me in thy debt?” 

“Thou wilt not be in debt to me, neither shall I 
be in debt to thee.” Again Natm was silent for a 
space. 

“Well, take thy oath on that!” 

“T do, as God is holy,’ —replied Akim. 

“Here goes then, although I know before- 
hand that I shall repent of it,” —remarked Naum. 
—“ But so be it! Give me your hands.” 

Akim turned his back toward him; Natm be- 
gan to unbind him. 

“ Look out, old man,” —he added, as he slipped 
the rope over his wrists:—‘“‘ remember, I have 
spared thee; be careful!” 

“You ’re a dear, Naim Ivanitch,’—stam- 
mered the deeply-moved Efrém.—“ The Lord 
will be merciful to you!” 

Akim stretched out his chilled and swollen 
arms, and was starting for the gate... . 

All of a sudden Natim “turned Jewish,” as 


328 


THE INN 


the expression is—evidently, he was sorry that he 
had released Akim. .. . 

“Thou hast taken an oath, look out,’—he 
shouted after him. 

Akim turned round, and surveying the house 
with an embracing glance, said sadly :—‘“* Possess 
thou everything, forever, undisturbed... 
farewell.” 

And he stepped quietly into the street, accom- 
panied by Efrém. Natm waved his hand, or- 
dered the cart to be unharnessed, and went back 
into. the house. 

“ Whither away, Akim Semyonitch? Art not 
thou coming to my house? ’’—exclaimed Efrém, 
—perceiving that Akim turned to the right from 
the highway. 

“No, Efrémushka, thanks,’—replied Akim. 
. . . “I will go and see what my wife is doing.” 

“Thou canst see later on. . . . But now thou 
must for joy . . thou knowest... .” 

“No, thanks, Efrém. ... I ’ve had enough 
as it is. Farewell.’—And Akim walked away 
without looking behind him. 

“Kka! He has had enough as it is!” —eJacu- 
lated the astounded chanter;—‘“‘ and I have takep. 
my oath on his behalf! Well, I did n’t expect 
this,’—he added with vexation,—‘‘ after I had 
vouched for him. Phew!” 

He remembered that he had forgotten to take 
his knife and pot, and returned to the inn... . 

329 


THE INN 


Natim gave orders that his things should be de- 
livered to him, but it never entered his head to 
entertain him. Thoroughly enraged and com- 
pletely sober he presented himself at home. 

“Well, what? ’’—his wife asked him;—“‘ didst 
thou find him?” 

“ Did I find him? ”—retorted Efrém;—“ cer- 
tainly I found him; there are thy utensils for 
thee?’ 

“ Akim?”’—inquired his wife, with special em- 
phasis. 

Efrém nodded his head. 

“Yes, Akim. But what a goose he is! I went 
bail for him; without me he would have been put 
in prison, and he never even treated me to a 
glass of liquor. Ulydna Feddorovna, do you, at 
least, show me consideration; give me just one 
little glass.” 

But Ulyana Fedédorovna showed him no con- 
sideration and drove him out of her sight. 

In the meantime, Akim was proceeding with 
quiet strides along the road which led to Lizaveta 
Prokhorovna’s village. He had not yet been 
able fully to recover himself; he was all quivering 
inside, like a man who has but just escaped immi- 
nent death. He seemed not to believe in his free- 
dom. With dull amazement he stared at the fields, 
at the sky, at the larks which were fluttering their 
wings in the warm air. On the previous day, at 
Efrém’s house, he had not slept at all since 

330 


THE INN 


dinner, although he had lain motionless on the 
oven; at first he had tried to drown with liquor the 
intolerable pain of injury within him, the an- 
guish of wrathful, impotent indignation... . 
but the liquor could not entirely overcome him; 
his heart waxed hot within him, and he began 
to meditate how he might pay off his malefactor. 
- He thought of Natm alone; Lizavéta Pro- 
khorovna did not enter his head, and from Avydo- 
tya he mentally turned away. ‘Toward evening, 
the thirst for revenge had blazed up in him to 
the point of crime, and he, the good-natured, weak 
man, with feverish impatience waited for the 
night, and like a wolf pouncing on its prey, he 
rushed forth with fire in his hand to annihilate 
his former home. . . But he had been captured 
. locked up. . . . Night came. What had 

not he turned over in his mind during that atro- 
cious night! It is difficult to convey in words 
all the tortures which he had undergone; it is 
all the more difficult, because these torments even 
in the man himself were wordless and dumb. . . . 
Toward morning, before the arrival of Naum 
and Efrém, Akim had felt somewhat easier in 
mind. . . “ Everything is lost!” . he thought 

rervihing’% is scattered #6 ‘eke winds! ” — 

tail he waved his hand in despair over everything. 
- If he had been born with an evil soul, he 
Might have turned into a criminal at that mo- 
ment; but evil was not a characteristic of Akim. 


331 


THE INN 


Beneath the shock of the unexpected and unde- 
served calamity, in the reek of despair, he had 
made up his mind to a felonious deed; it had 
shaken him to the very foundations, and, having 
miscarried, it had left behind in him a profound 
weariness. . . . Conscious of his guilt, he 
wrenched his heart free from all earthly things, 
and began to pray bitterly but zealously. At 
first he prayed in a whisper, at last, accidentally, 
perhaps, he ejaculated almost aloud: “ O Lord!” 
—and the tears gushed from his eyes. . . . Long 
did he weep, then calmed down at last. . . . His 
thoughts probably would have undergone a 
change, had he been forced to smart for his at- 
tempt of the day before . . . but now he had 
suddenly recovered his liberty . . . and, half- 
alive, all shattered, but calm, he was on his way 
to an interview with his wife. 

Lizavéta Proékhorovna’s manor stood a verst 
and a half distant from her village, on the left- 
hand side of the country road along which Akim 
was walking. At the turn which led to the manor, 
he was on the point of pausing ... . but he 
marched past. He had decided first to go to his 
former cottage, to his old uncle. 

Akim’s tiny and already rickety cottage was 
situated almost at the extreme end of the village; 
Akim traversed the entire length of the street 
without encountering a single soul. The whole 
population was in church. Only one ailing old 

332 


THE INN 


woman lifted her window to gaze after him, and 
a little girl, who had run out to the well with an 
empty bucket, gaped in wonder at him and also 
followed him with her eyes. The first person 
whom he met was precisely the uncle whom he 
was seeking. ‘The old man had been sitting since 
early morning on the earthen bank outside the 
cottage under the windows, taking snuff, and 
warming himself in the sun; he was not quite 
well, and for that reason had not gone to church; 
he was on his way to see another ailing old man, 
a neighbour, when he suddenly espied Akim. . . . 
He stopped short, let the latter come up to him, 
and looking him in the face, he said: 

“Morning, Akimushka! ” 

“ Morning,’ —replied Akim, and _ stepping 
past the old man, he entered the gate to his cot- 
tage. . . . In the yard stood his horses, his cow, 
his cart; and his chickens were roaming about 
there also. . . . He entered the cottage in si- 
lence. The old man followed him. Akim seated 
himself on the bench, and rested his clenched fists 
on it. The old man gazed compassionately at 
him, from his stand at the door. 

“And where is my housewife? ”—inquired 
Akim. 

“Why, at the manor-house,’—replied the old 
man, briskly. “‘ She is there. They have placed 
thy cattle here, and thy coffers, just as they were 
—but she is yonder. Shall I go for her?” 


333 


THE TWN 


Akim did not reply immediately. 

“Yes, go,”’—he said at last. 

“ Ekh, uncle, uncle,’—he articulated with a 
sigh, while the latter was taking his cap from its 
nail:—*“ dost thou remember what thou saidst 
to me on the eve of my wedding?” 

“ God’s will rules all things, Akimushka.” 

“ Dost thou remember how thou saidst to me 
that I was no fit mate for you peasants—and 
now see what a pass things have come to. . . . I 
myself have become as poor as a church mouse.” 

“A man can’t make calculations against bad 
people,’—replied the old man;—‘“and as for 
him, the dishonest scoundrel, if any one were to 
teach him a good lesson, some gentleman, for 
instance, or any other power,— what cause would 
there be to fear him? The wolf recognised his 
prey.’—And the old man put on his cap and 
departed. 

Avdoétya had but just returned from church 
when she was informed that her husband’s uncle 
was inquiring for her. Up to that time she had 
very rarely seen him; he had not been in the habit 
of coming to their inn, and in general he bore 
the reputation of being a queer fellow; he was 
passionately fond of snuff, and preserved silence 
most of the time. 

She went out to him. 

“ What dost thou want, Petrovitch? Has any- 
thing happened, pray?” 

334 


EC: NEY 


“ Nothing has happened, Avdétya Aréfyevna; 
thy husband is asking for thee.” 

“Has he returned? ” 

~ ves.” 

“But where is he?” 

“Why, in the village; he’s sitting in his cot- 
tage.” 

Avdotya quailed. 

“Well, Petrovitch,’—she asked, looking him 
straight in the eye,—“ is he angry?” 

“°T is not perceptible that he is.” 

Avdotya dropped her eyes. 

“ Well, come along,” —she said, throwing on a 
large kerchief, and the two set out. They walked 
in silence until they reached the village. But 
when they began to draw near to the cottage, Av- 
détya was seized with such alarm that her knees 
trembled under her. 

‘Dear little father, Petrévitch,’—she said,— 
“do thou go in first. . . . Tell him that I have 
come.” 

Petroévitch entered the cottage and found Akim 
sitting buried in profound thought, on the self- 
same spot where he had left him. 

“ Well,’—said Akim, raising his head;— 
“has n’t she come? ”’ 

‘““ Ves, she has come,’ —replied the old man.— 
“‘ She ’s standing at the gate... .” 

“Send her hither.” 

The old man went out, waved his hand to 


335 


THE INN 


Avdotya, said to her: “ Go along!” and sat down 
again himself on the earthen bank along the cot- 
tage wall. With trepidation Avdétya opened 
the door, crossed the threshold and paused... . 

Akim looked at her. 

“ Well, Aréfyevna,’—he began,—“ what are 
we—thou and I—to do now?” 

‘ Forgive me,’’—she whispered. 

“Ekh, Aréfyevna, we are all sinful folks. 
What ’s the use of discussing it! ” 

“That villain has ruined both of us,’—began 
Avdotya in a voice which jingled and broke, and 
the tears streamed down her face.—“‘ Thou must 
not let things stand as they are, Akim Semyé6- 
nitch; thou must get the money from him. Do 
not spare me. I am ready to declare under oath 
that I lent the money to him. Lizavéta Prokho- 
rovna had a right to sell our house, but why 
should he rob us?.... Get the money from 
him.” 

“T have no money to receive from him,” —re- 
plied Akim, gloomily.—‘‘ He and I have settled 
our accounts.” 

Avdotya was astounded.—‘‘ How so?” 

“Why, because we have. Knowest thou,’ — 
pursued Akim, and his eyes began to blaze;— 
“ knowest thou where I spent the night? Thou 
dost not know? In Natm?’s cellar, bound hand 
and foot, like a ram, that ’s where I spent last 
night. I tried to burn down his house, and he 


336 


THE INN 


caught me, did Naum; he ’s awfully clever! And 
to-day he was preparing to carry me to the town, 
but he pardoned me; consequently, there is no 
money coming to me from him. . . . ‘ And when 
did I ever borrow any money of thee?’ he will 
say. And am I to say: * My wife took it out from 
under my floor, and carried it to thee? ’—‘ Thy 
wife is a liar,’ he will say. And would n’t it be 
a big exposure for thee, Aréfyevna? Hold thy 
tongue, rather, I tell thee, hold thy tongue.” 

“Forgive me, Semyonitch, forgive me,’— 
whispered the thoroughly frightened Avdotya. 

“That ’s not the point,”—replied Akim, after 
remaining silent for a while:—“ but what are we 
—thou and I—to do? Weno longer have a home 

ner money either.|.) |.” 

“We ‘ll get along somehow, Akim Semyo- 
nitch;—we will ask Lizavéta Prdokhorovna and 
she will help us; Kirillovna has promised me 
that.” 

“No, Aréfyevna, thou mayest ask her for thy- 
self along with thy Kirillovna; thou and she are 
birds of a feather.’ But I ’Il tell thee what: do 
thou stay here, with God’s blessing. I shall not 
stay here. Luckily, we have no children, and 
perhaps I shall not starve alone. One person 
can worry along alone.” 

“What wilt thou do, Semyénitch—dost mean 
to go as carrier again?” 

1In Russian: ‘‘ Berries from the same field.’”’—TransiaTor,. 


337 


THE INN 


Akim laughed bitterly. 

“A pretty carrier I would make, there ’s no 
denying that! A fine, dashing young fellow thou 
hast picked out! No, Aréfyevna, that is not the 
same sort of business as marrying, for example; 
an old man is not fit for it. Only I will not re- 
main here, that ’s what; I won’t have people point- 


ing the finger at me . . . . understand? [I shall 
go to pray away my sins, Aréfyevna, that ’s where 
I shall go.” 


“What sins hast thou, Semyonitch? ’—articu- 
lated Avdotya, timidly. 

“Well, wife, I know what they are.” 

“ But in whose care wilt thou leave me, Semy6- 
nitch? How am [I to live without a husband?” 

‘“ In whose care shall I leave thee? Ekh, Aré- 
fyevna, how thou sayest that, forsooth! Much 
need hast thou of a husband like me, and an old 
man and a ruined one to boot. The idea! Thou 
has dispensed with me before, thou canst dispense 
with me hereafter also. And what property we 
have left thou mayest take for thyself, curse 
ta oe 

“As thou wilt, Semyonitch,”—replied Avdo- 
tya, sadly ;—“‘ thou knowest best about that.” 

“ Exactly so. Only, don’t think that I am 
angry with thee, Aréfyevna. 

“No, what ’s the use of being angry, when 
.... I ought to have discovered how things 
stood earlier in the day. I myself am to blame— 

338 


THE INN 


and I am punished.”’— (Akim heaved a sigh.) — 
“As you have made your bed, so you must lie 
upon it." I am advanced in years, and ’t is time 
for me to be thinking of my soul. The Lord Him- 
self has brought me to my senses. Here was I, 
seest thou, an old fool, who wanted to live at 
his ease with a young wife. . . . No, brother— 
old man, first do thou pray, and beat thy brow 
against the earth, and be patient, and fast. . . . 
And now, go, my mother. I am very tired and 
I will get a bit of sleep.” 

And Akim stretched himself out, grunting on 
the bench. 

Avdétya started to say something, stood for 
a while gazing at him, then turned and went 
away.... 

“Well, did n’t he thrash thee? ”— Petrévitch 
asked her, as he sat, all bent double, on the 
earthen bank, when she came alongside of him. 
Avdotya passed him in silence.—“ See there now, 
he did n’t beat her,’ —said the old man to himself, 
as he grinned, ruffled up his hair, and took a pinch 
of snuff. 


Akim carried out his purpose. He speedily 
put his petty affairs in order, and a few days 
after the conversation which we have transcribed, 
he went, already garbed for the journey, to bid 


1In Russian: ‘‘ If you are fond of sleighing, then be fond also 
of dragging the sledge.’’ —Transator. 


339 


THE INN 


farewell to his wife, who had settled for the time 
being in a tiny wing of the mistress’s manor- 
house. Their leave-taking did not last long... . 
Kirillovna, who chanced to be on hand, advised 
Akim to present himself to the mistress; and he 
did so. Lizavéta Prokhorovna received him with 
a certain amount of confusion, but affably per- 
mitted him to kiss her hand, and inquired where 
he was intending to betake himself? He replied 
that he was going first to Kieff, and thence where- 
ever God should grant. She lauded his purpose, 
and dismissed him. From that time forth he 
rarely made his appearance at home, although 
he never forgot to bring his mistress a blessed 
bread with a particle taken out for her health... .’ 


1 Tiny double loaves of leavened bread, like those used in preparing 
the Holy Communion, are sold at the entrances to churches. Any 
one who wishes to have the health of his living or the souls of his 
dead friend prayed for, buys a loaf, and sends it to the sanctuary 
before the beginning of the morning service, accompanied by a slip 
of paper, whereon is written: ‘‘ For the health”’ (or ‘* For the soul’’) 
**of Ivan ’’—or whatever the friend’s baptismal name may be. The 
priest removes from the loaf with his spear-shaped knife a triangular 
particle, which ke places on the chalice (it is not used in the Com- 
munion), and at a certain point of the service, all these persons are 
prayed for, by name—the Lord being aware which of the Ivans or 
Maryas is intended. After the service the loaf is returned to the 
owner, who carries it home, and (when possible) gives it to the person 
who has been prayed for. It is the custom for pilgrims to the various 
shrines to bring back loaves of this sort to their friends, and these are 
highly prized. At some of the famous monasteries, instead of the cus- 
tomary imprint of a cross and the Greek letters meaning ‘‘Jesus Christ 
the Conqueror,’’ which are used on the loaves for the Communion, 
a special holy bread (prosford) is prepared for this purpose, stamped 
with the Saint or Saints for which the locality is renowned. In the 
primitive church, the worshippers were wont to bring offerings of 
bread, wine, oil and wheat, for the requirements of the service. As 
long as the congregations were not numerous, all such givers were 


340 


EL ——_ « ——— 


THE INN 


But, on the other hand, everywhere where 
devout Russians congregate, his gaunt and 
aged but still comely and sedate face was to be 
seen: at the shrine of St. Sergius, and on the 
White Shores, and in the Optin Hermitage, and 
in distant Valaam.’ He went everywhere. 
This year he passed you in the ranks of the count- 
less throng which marched in a procession of the 
cross behind the holy picture of the Birth-giver 
of God at the Korennaya Hermitage; * next year 
you would find him sitting with his wallet on his 
back, along with other pilgrims on the porch of 
St. Nicholas the Wonder-Worker in Mtzensk. 
. . . He made his appearance in Moscow nearly 
every spring. 

From place to place he trudged with his quiet, 
unhurried but unceasing stride—’t is said that he 
even went to Jerusalem. . . . He appeared to be 
perfectly composed and happy, and many per- 
sons talked about his piety and humility, espe- 


prayed for by name. When members became so numerous that this 
would have been burdensome, the custom was instituted of praying 
for the Sovereign and his family, as representatives of all the rest: 
and this last custom still prevails, mingled (as above described) with 
a remnant of the original custom. —TRANsLATor. 

1The shrine of St. Sergius at the Troitzky (Trinity) monastery, 
forty miles from Moscow. The Optin Hermitage in Tamboff Govern- 
ment. ‘*‘The White Shores ”’—the famous monasteries of Solovétzk, 
in the White Sea, and at Byélo-Ozero (White Lake), south of Lake 
Onéga. Valdam, an island in Lake Ladéga, with another famous 
monastery. — TRANSLATOR. 

2The Korennaya Hermitage lies about sixteen miles northwest of 
Kursk, in southern Russia. Mtzensk, nearer the centre, is half-way 
between Orél and Tula.—Transiator. 


34]. 


THE INN 


cially those people who had chanced to converse 
with him. 

In the meanwhile, Natim’s affairs throve ex- 
ceedingly. He took hold briskly and under- 
standingly, and, as the saying is, went to the 
head fast. Everybody in the neighbourhood 
knew by what means he had acquired possession 
of the inn, and they knew also that Avdotya had 
given him her husband’s money; no one liked 
Natm because of his cold and harsh character. 
.... They narrated with condemnation con- 
cerning him that one day he had replied to Akim 
himself, who had begged alms under his window, 
“God will provide,” and had brought out no- 
thing to him; but all agreed that no more lucky 
man than he existed; his grain throve better than 
his neighbours’ grain; his bees swarmed more 
abundantly; even his hens laid more eggs; his 
cattle never fell ill; his horses never went lame. 
.... For a long time Avdotya could not en- 
dure to hear his name (she had accepted Lizavéta 
Prokhorovna’s offer, and had again entered her 
service in the capacity of head-seamstress) ; but 
eventually, her aversion diminished somewhat; 
*t was said that want forced her to have recourse 
to him, and he gave her a hundred rubles. . . . 
We shall not condemn her too severely; poverty 
will break any one’s spirit, and the sudden revolu- 
tion in her life had aged and tamed her down 
greatly; it is difficult to believe how quickly she 

342 


THE INN 


lost her good looks, how she grew disheartened 
and low-spirited. . . 

“ And how did it all end?”’—the reader will 
ask. 

Thus: Naum, after having conducted his busi- 
ness successfully for fifteen years, sold his inn 
on profitable terms to a petty burgher. . . . He 
never would have parted with his house if the 
following apparently insignificant incident had 
not occurred: two mornings in succession his dog, 
as it sat in front of the windows, howled in a pro- 
longed and mournful manner; on the second oc- 
easion he went out into the street, gazed atten- 
tively at the howling dog, shook his head, set 
off for the town, and that very day agreed on the 
price with a petty burgher, who had long been 
trying to purchase his inn. . . . A week later he 
departed for some distant place—out of the 
Government,—and what think you? that very 
night the inn was burned to the ground; not even 
a kennel remained intact, and Natim’s successor 
was reduced to beggary. ‘The reader can easily 
imagine what rumours arose in the neighbour- 
hood concerning this conflagration. ... Evi- 
dently he carried his “ luck” away with him, all 
declared. . . . It is reported that he engaged 
in the grain business, and became very wealthy. 
But was it for long? Other equally firm pillars 
have fallen prone, and sooner or later a bad deed 


has a bad ending. 
343 


THE INN 


It is not worth while to say much about Liza- 
véta Prokhorovna: she is alive to this day, and 
as often happens with people of that sort, she has 
not changed in the least; she has not even aged 
much, but only seems to have grown more lean; 
moreover, her penuriousness has increased to an 
extreme degree, although it is difficult to under- 
stand for whom she is always hoarding, since she 
has no children, and is related to no one. In con- 
versation, she frequently alludes to Akim, and 
avers that ever since she discovered all his fine 
qualities, she has come to cherish a great respect 
for the Russian peasant. LKirillovna has pur- 
chased her freedom from Lizavéta Prokhorovna 
for a considerable sum and has married, for love, 
some fair-haired young butler or other, at whose 
hands she endures bitter torture; Avdotya is liv- 
ing, as of yore, in the woman’s wing of Lizavéta 
Prokhorovna’s house, but has descended several 
rungs lower, dresses very poorly, almost filthily, 
and retains not a trace of the cityfied affectations 
of the fashionable maid, or the habits of a well- 
to-do landlady. . . . No one takes any notice of 
her, and she herself is glad that they do not; old 
Petrovitch is dead, but Akim is still roving on 
pilgrimages—and God alone knows how much 
longer he is destined to wander! 


344 


FATHERS AND CHILDREN 
(1861) 









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